You Win or You Die: The 99th Annual Hunger Games
by IceandFire86
Summary: "When you play the Hunger Games you win or you die. There is no middle ground." The hundredth anniversary of the Hunger Games is fast approaching and the pressure is on for an exciting game. Can the new Head Gamemaker live up to the pressure? And what of the tributes?
1. Prepare

~Prepared~

The other gamemakers had warned him of President Snow's reaping day visits. He would come to give them the list of tributes, or so he would say, and then he would ask for a sneak peek at the arena and the mutts they would incorporate. You never say no, they had warned. Gavrosh Locks had refused twenty years ago and hadn't even survived to see the tributes in his arena. The president would also bombard him with questions and he had to have an answer for every one. Otherwise he would end up like Danike Lowsome who didn't have a plan for pushing the tributes together for the finale.

Slade Keirseon had never worked on a game maker team before being appointed Head Gamemaker and despite how nerve wracking the influx of warnings and advice from his team was, he was grateful for all of it. He'd known going into this job that he would face much resentment from seasoned game makers that would feel they deserved the job more than some outsider. He hoped that their advice meant that they were past their initial resentment. He thought it was a good sign though, as well as their enthusiasm for his proposed arena.

He was standing at the head of the control room, watching a test run of one of the mutts they had designed specifically for their arena, when the doors behind him hissed and slid open. Just as promised, in came the president. With over a century of life, not even Capitol technology could hide President Snow's age, although not for lack of effort. The man was bent and walked gingerly, although his face was smooth and spotless. His hair was thicker than a man his age should have had, but stiff and breaking from the use of the products that ensured it grew. His lips were as thick and red as they had been for most of his life, as far as Slade could tell from old footage of the President in his youth. He was flanked by two avoxes when he entered, one of whom bore a stack of folders.

"Head Gamemaker Keirseon," The president greeted in as genial a way as a weathered old man could manage. "I've come to bring you your tributes." He nodded to the avox, who stepped forward and dropped the folders on the Head Gamemaker's desk. On top Slade could see a crisp sheet of paper with a list of names and ages and districts. He longed to peek through the files or even to study the list, but knew he could not yet. There was still more business. He had thought this through and if the president was going to force him to show off his arena, he was going to make it look like his own idea.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he began cheerfully. "Since you are here, perhaps you would like to take a peek at the arena? We already have footage pulled up. We are testing mutts."

The president smiled, which was a terrifying thing. Sours on his mouth split open and blood stained his teeth. He looked like some animal baring its teeth. "Why thank you, Head Gamemaker. I would like that very much indeed."

So Slader stood back and allowed the President to step up to the rail that looked over the room. He instructed one of his gamemakers to pull up the three-dimensional map of the arena first. He talked a little about the finer points of the overall design before moving on to some of the highlights, having his gamemakers show footage of the places up close. The president listened to him patiently, his face blank, which was making the Head Gamemaker nervous. When he had covered everything he could think of and concluded, the President observed, "It sounds very medieval." Head Gamemaker Keirseon couldn't read the tone. It was flat and gave nothing away, but the Head Gamemaker suspected what he would say. The other gamemakers had said the same thing at first.

He took a deep breath and admitted, "It does have a very medieval vibe to it yes."

"We've seen medieval a lot," the president told him, and now the Head Gamemaker was certain of his feelings for it, but he smiled, undeterred.

"We have, Mr. President, for a certainty, but I promise you you've never seen it like this...Chala, show our good president what we've been cooking up."

So the mutt design team pulled them up, one by one, and each time Slade talked in detail about the design and its uses and with each mutt the president looked more and more darkly satisfied. He tried very hard to cover any questions the old man could possibly think of before it was asked, but the president did manage to think of one.

"How much control over these creatures will you have? Will you be able to prevent them, for example, from burning down your arena?"

The Head Gamemaker smiled wide. "I assure you Mr. President, we are testing all of our tricks thoroughly to ensure that everything is completely under our control. Everything will be contained as we see fit."

All the president said in response was, "Good work. I'll see you at the Chariot Rides." Then he was gone.

The room remained silent for several minutes after the doors slid shut behind him, then the room burst into cheers and applause. One Gamemaker told him, "The president has never looked so pleased with an arena in all the years I have worked here!"

Head Gamemaker Keirseon smiled at them and let them have their celebration. He was more concerned with the new folder on his desk. The reapings were finished and the list of his tributes was in. He studied the sheet of paper on top. It read:

Tributes of the 99th Annual Hunger Games

District 1:

Male: Superior Dempsey 18

Female: Mosaic Panthion 17

District 2:

Male: Apollo Wells 18

Female: Silk Guerra 17

District 3:

Male:Bug Dell 13

Female:Nova Ampere 14

District 4:

Male: Chelsea Dover 17

Female: Zidone Eversmith 14

District 5:

Male: Theophilus Ravenly 16

Female:Twyla Zahavyin 16

District 6:

Male: Bentley Leidart 17

Female: Luna Bridger 13

District 7:

Male: Spruce Ashmark 16

Female: Brooke Mackinaw 12

District 8:

Male: Rollag Denim 12

Female:Chifelle Wayne 15

District 9:

Male: Taren Davy 14

Female:Avena Larson 14

District 10:

Male: Crispin Rolf 14

Female:Sable Pelletier 15

District 11:

Male:Harry Harrison 15

Female:Lilly Bellcreek 12

District 12:

Male: Maxwell Schreave 17

Female: Poppy Quick 15


	2. It's Not a Pleasent Story

**Hello again!**

 **Firstly I'd like to thank everyone that has submitted so far as well as those of you who have left reviews and faved/followed my story. Your support is awesome!**

 **So as of now I don't have enough tributes to proceed with the story, therefore I am extending the deadline to August 1. I will, however, be accepting those tributes already submitted. I will post a list of closed slots in an updated version of the first chapter as well as on my profile. I only have about a quarter of the tributes I need so there are plenty of places to go.**

 **On anther note, please no submissions through review unless you are a guest. If you can PM me do! Also please try to use my form. It's just easier to have a universal set of information for every tribute. Thank you!**

 **I own nothing. Enjoy this chapter and I look forward to more tributes!  
**

 _~It's Not a Pleasent Story~_

The morning was cool and damp. The fog covered the world in a soft screen that blurred edges and made everything look soft. Like a painting of the world instead of reality. Once upon a time she had loved mornings like this, like a dream, where every shape and color was full of possiblility. But there had been fog that first day. Fog that made it impossbile to see those around her. There was not the huge shape before her that was the cornucopia. The memory made her shiver despite the warmth of the morning, but the world didn't slow for her memories. The birds still chirped in the trees. The air still smelled of life despite how almost everything reminded her of death now. The arena had been that way as well; beautiful, full of life...and even fuller of death.

The horse nickered beneath Ezra Harhold and paused to sniff at a patch of dew soaked grass glittering in the dull light filtering in through the fog and blanket of clouds above. Ezra let her, stroking her neck and entertaining the idea that that patch of grass would be the highlight of the creatures morning. It would be the best grass he had ever tasted, not too much dew, but not dry either. The horse would chew it and look around at the world around him and feel her stroking his neck and would think there was nothing more pleasant than mornings like this. She wished she could have that again.

"Are you okay?"

Ezra looked over to her companion and tried a smile. It was thin and she knew it likely didn't look very convincing, but Stella would never say so. Stella never pushed her to be actually happy. She never told her to cheer up, to feel grateful that she had lived when twenty-three others didn't...and Stella of all people had the right to tell her not to be so ungrateful. When Ezra looked at the girl she could still see him. Stefan, Stella's brother, who ate breakfast with Ezra for an entire week. Who would clump all of his food together in the middle of his plate because he knew it annoyed their escort and who would give Ezra that impish grin across the table when the escort pitched a fit about it. Stefan, whose eyes glittered with mischief, who spoke in a lilting manner that used to drive their escort crazy and who would deliberately mispronounce words just for the irritated huff that he would get from the Capitolite.

Ezra often wondered-if he had won instead of her-if Stefan would have been this miserable. He probably would've stolen the Capitol's heart, been the Capitol's Sweetheart for the rest of his life. He probably would have a hundred off-handed jokes that he would throw out just to watch how surprised people looked by his flippancy. If Stefan had survived, he would have lived.

"I'm okay," Ezra assured her.

Stella smiled back at her, but the younger girl's smile was real. The way her nose crinkled up when she did made the freckles there all blend together like one giant, discolored mass. Stefan's smile had done that too. "You know, Stefan would love that you do this. I think his biggest concern about dying was whether or not anyone would ever ride Flicker."

The horse raised her head at the sound of her name, ears perked up. Ezra patted her gently, thinking miserably about how different and yet similar the muscles beneath felt in comparison to that of a person. The thought sparked a memory. A flash of anger, red hot, lighting her entire being. The rake of fingernails down her arms, on her cheek, her neck. Warmth trickled where the nail marked her, but she couldn't feel anything. There was only the neck between her fingers; squeezing. Squeezing away the pain, the guilt.

"Ezra?"

Ezra blinked and the memory faded. The dark, the redness, the bulging eyes and blue skin under her fingers vanished and she was in that dull fog again. The horse had returned to eating. Ezra's face was damp and she wondered if the sky had finally decided to let the rain loose, but they were only tears. She had been crying, which was likely the cause of Stella's concerned stare.

"I'm okay," she said again, wiping at the wetness. "Just...stuck in the past."

"You dwell too much on the unpleasant," Stella told her. Among the many things she and her brother shared, a happy disposition about the world was the most prominent. Ezra didn't think she had ever met more optimistic people in her life and suspected she never would. "Life's not about hiding from the storm…"

"It's about dancing in the rain," Ezra finished with her, laughing. "You really need some new material."

And there was that impish grin again. That twinkle in bright green eyes. "Why fix what works?"

Ezra shook her head, then looked of to the east, where the sun was creeping ever higher into the sky. "We should head back," she decided, despite the large part of her that never wanted to leave. Never wanted the morning to pass and noon to come. She turned her horse around and began heading towards the ranch.

Stella followed without objection and they meandered along at an easy pace, despite Flicker's impatient snorts and dancing feet. The horse hated slow. She wanted. Run, but if she were allowed to run they would get back too soon. Ezra thought of what leaving the ranch today meant. She would be forced to head back to the house she had earned in the Victor's Village where there was only her family, who could never understand why she was so sad and angry and guilty and damaged. At that house there was a styling team that would make her look less like herself than she could ever have imagined and that woman that had picked Ezra's name and Stefan's, who had ridiculed Stefan every chance she got and didn't seemed at all saddened that he had not survived. Ezra much preferred Stella, who was real, who understood, or at least tried to.

Ezra would never forget the day she had met Stella. She would never forget that sharp, racing pain that went through her when she saw the strawberry-blond curls and freckled cheeks and nose. She would never forget how sad Stella had looked when Ezra had fallen to her knees before her and told the girl how sorry she was, how much she wished it had been Stefan instead of her. She would never forget the way Stella lifted her face and said, "You didn't kill him." In a voice full of sorrow, but overlaid with that sincere tone that was always there. That assured you that she would never say anything she didn't mean.

And then the younger girl had smiled and said, "But if you wanna make it up to him so bad, there's something you could do."

Then Stella had taken her back to the family's ranch and introduced her to Flicker. The horse hadn't like her at first, but Stella assured her that the horse liked very few people other than Stefan. That didn't help Ezra's skepticism, but she had allowed Stella to show her how to saddle the horse as she explained, "I can't take her out as much as she's used to cause I have to ride my own horse as well, but if there was someone else to go on rides with me…"

And so their friendship had begun.

The Welsh Ranch was a wide expanse of green field nesteled into a little bowl of land surrounded on all sides by low hills. In the center sat a small clump of buildings. The big barn, once painted red but now the paint was so stained and chipped that you couldn't tell until you got right up to it. The building was placed off to the side and the starting and ending point of the fence that ran the perimeter of the property. A small corral stood not far from the big building, inside the property. A much smaller building stood nearby as well, where they kept miscellaneous items such as branding equiptment, grooming materials, and saddles and saddle upkeep items. The house stood in the center of the property, much smaller than the barn, but much bigger than most houses in their sad little district. It was painted a bright yellow, which had made Ezra laugh aloud the first time she had seen it.

When they came over the hill and the land opened up around them Flicker nickered at the sight of her home. She threw her head about and hastened her steps. Ezra was going to slow the horse, but Stella laughed and called, "Race you!" And Ezra had no choice but to put her heels into Flicker as her friend took off. She felt the sharp pang of disappointment as she did. She had wanted to meander down the hill. To enjoy the morning and the company. To put off as long as possible the moment that everything would start over.

Flicker caught up to Stella's horse with little effort. The girl once told Ezra that Flicker had been named because when they would see the horse run it was just a flicker of color. Stefan had caught the mare himself, Stella claimed, and spent the better part of a year breaking her. The mare still had moments that reminded Ezra she had been born wild, but for the most part she was calm.

But when she ran...Ezra had never felt so free as when they galloped across the fields and up and down the hills.

When they reached the barn, Flicker slide to a halt and Ezra hopped off her back all in one swift movement. Ezra had always been nimble. That had saved her life in the arena when she scaled the cliff beside the waterfall. The career in pursuit of her had slipped and fallen halfway up, but she had never known he was there. Not until the replays at the victory ceremony. Not until she watched the way he screamed and clawed at the air. The way his body had broken on the rocks below. The unnatural bend of his neck and the blood that trickled from his nose and the corners of his lifeless eyes. Twenty-three children cried metaphorical tears of blood in those weeks, but he was the only one that did it literally.

When Stella and her horse arrived the girl was laughing. "I hoped I could surprise you enough to win this time," she proclaimed, climbing down from her horse.

"Not much surprises me anymore," Ezra replied, flashes going in her head. Snapshots. Moments that shocked her and terrified her. Snapshots of the moments that killed her though her heart still beat.

Stella's smile faltered a moment, but only a moment, then she said, "I can put Flicker away today. I'm sure you have to get back and get prettied up for the reaping."

Again Ezra thought of the house in the Victor's Village. Of her stylist, who was young and ambitious and loved making lavish, uncomfortable dresses and the prep team that sniffed at every stray hair and very undiscreetly left waxing material at her house after the Victory Tour. Ezra's baby brother had gotten into it and the house had been filled for hours with his screams as they peeled the dried wax from his head and hands. It hadn't been a good night for her. She'd had to lock herself in her room and press the pillow over her ears, rocking and crying.

"Another half hour won't hurt anyone," Ezra asserted. "And I want to avoid whatever monstrosity Garnish has created this year as long as possible." Then, trying out a thin smile she added, "Can't wait until next year when there's a new victor and my styling team isn't coming around every six months to harass me." This year she had to look special because everyone looked at the most recent victor as much as they did the tributes. She didn't know if that was really true...she hoped it wasn't. She just wanted to lay low, mentor her tribute, and then come home and ride Flicker and laugh with Stella.

"Well, until then, we'll take a good long time washing the horses. They'll love the smell of wet animal."

"Oh yes," Ezra agreed, laughing for real now. "Most certainly."

 _"I'm guessing the lady and I can tell more unpleasent stories than your lordship."_

 **Thanks again for reading and for all the support! I look forward to continuing this story!**

 **~IceandFire86~**


	3. Deserve: District 4 Reaping

**Hey everyone! Sooo...I have all of my girl spots filled and all but about three or four of my male spots filled which is awesome and also means I can start with some reapings, like so. However, I would like to give anyone else who wants to be involved one last chance s if you see a slot with the word OPEN next to it feel free to submit. At this point it's kind f just first come first serve for those last two spots, just because I'm tooo lazy to come up with another deadline date.**

 **Also congratulations to those accepted. I look forward to using everyone's tributes and if I culdn't use yours(I had too disregard a couple of girls because I had to many submission for the females) than I am so sorry and please come back if I do another, because I would love to see something else from all of you! Also feel free to submit to one of the open boy spots!**

 **Okay, I'm done talking just because it's late and I've had a long day. Thank you so much to those awesome people that gave me these tributes. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter(even if I feel it came out a little rushed.:/)**

Wind and Words Part 1

District 4 Reaping

~Chelsea Dover 17~

Chelsea rose with the sun on the morning of the reaping. Even earlier than she normally did on a reaping day. Today was the day and she had a special breakfast planned, one final meal to cross off her bucket list before she volunteered to fight to the death. It was really more of a dinner recipe, but Chelsea wouldn't get to make dinner in the big family kitchen this year. She may never get to do that again. Chelsea was no fool, she knew what she was getting herself into.

But first she had to take care of her morning routine. She started by throwing on her training clothes and heading out for her morning run. She made her way down to the water and when she reached the beach where she always started, she took off her shoes and stuffed them into her training bag, squeezing wet sand between her toes and breathing in the salty air. District 4 was covered on three sides by ocean and on the fourth side by a large river that separated them from teh rest of Panem. That conveniently made following the ocean the perfect route for her run begun she was guaranteed distance and she loved the feel of the sand shifting beneath her feet and the tough cobblestone when she reached the docks and market. It was also a plus that the salt spray kept her cool. And the smell...that was her favorite part. Some people disliked the smell of the ocean, but seafood made up most of Chelsea's recipes so for her the ocean smelled like possibilities.

People waved at her as she passed them, wished her good morning and good luck. Fishermen and crabbers, shark hunters and stall winners. Everyone knew Chelsea and Chelsea knew everyone, but her favorite person was near the end of her route, right at the corner where the ocean rushed inland, cutting across the river across the back of their little peninsula and coming out again on the other side. There, nestled in a nook of stone above the mouth of the river, was a little shack that served the best food in town. The owner, Cordelia, was out on the patio wiping tables when Chelsea jogged by. The woman paused to wave at her and call, "Good morning!"

Chelsea smiled and waved back. The woman leaned on the bannister and observed, "So today's the day."

"Today's the day," Chelsea agreed, nodding. "I'm trying out that stuffed crab recipe you gave me the other day as a celebration breakfast!"

"Stuffed crab for breakfast?" Cordelia chuckled, but despite that Chelsea could see a shade of sadness cross her friend's face. She knew as well as Chelsea did that the breakfast was less of a celebration and more of a last meal. "Whatever happened to good old-fashioned toast and calamari?"

"I have a big appetite for a big day," Chelsea replied, jogging backwards so she could continue to talk and run.

"Well, I hope it turns out amazing!" Cordelia called loudly as Chelsea crept further and further out of earshot. "Of course knowing you there's no doubt it will be!"

Chelsea thanked her and finished her run, which brought her back to the training center- a huge, grand building with some fancy little name across the top like it was some sort of community gym and not a place to train children for a fight to the death. Strictly speaking, training was illegal and while the Capitol tended to look the other way for the most part, they couldn't just ignore something as Blanca the as if they had put, "Hunger Games training" on a big sign outside.

She slipped in through the back door using her mom's key-one of the benefits to having a trainer for a mother was twenty-four hour access to the center. Once inside, she snatched a clean towel from the laundry room, drying her face as though she weren't about to sweat all over again, then hit the gym and ran through her list of muscle building and body toning exercises. She was halfway through her chin up routine when she was joined by her best friend, Hanna Rogers. When Hannah entered she waited patiently for Chelsea to finish her work out, even did a little herself even though Hannah was more of a strategist than a hard core physical freak. When they had both done she collapsed on the floor next to Chelsea, platinum blond hair stuck to her cheek with sweat, and asked, "What are you going to do when you don't have access to a several hundred dollar private gym in the arena?"

"Probably get fat and lazy," she teased, and they booth giggled. "Now are you just going to lay there like a soft little lump or are you going to spar with me," she went on, trying to scold her friend although the lingering laughter made that a little unconvincing. She got to her feet and towered over the blond girl.

Hannah gave an exaggerated sigh, but kipped up all the same and allowed Chelsea to lead her to the sparring ring. She said nothing when they got there, only made her way to a weapons rack, stretching, and selected a long, blunted katana, so different from the pole arms she specialized in. Chelsea took the hint and chose a long spear for herself. She didn't like the feel of long weapons as much as the small, heavy kunai she loved so much, but in the arena she may not get to be so picky, so she needed to be as familiar with as many weapons as possible.

Chelsea had barely turned back to the ring when Hannah was upon her, katana flashing silver in the dull light. And so they began.

Chelsea was faster than her friend and her weapon was longer, but Hannah was smart. She ducked in while Chelsea's longer weapon was making its slower arcs and Chelsea nearly got tagged several times, but she kept her head and focused on finding openings, keeping her swings and jabs as short as possible, and watching Hannah closely for any tricks.

And then, finally, she managed a hard smack to Hannah's hand with the flat of the spear head. Hannah winced and nearly let go of the katana and Chelsea took the opportunity to step inside the blade. She was about to press the tip into Hannah's abdomen, then, in a real fight, it would have been over. But, in a flash, the katana fell from Hannah's hands and the heel of her palm slammed into Chelsea's spear, throwing it off course. At the same time, Hannah's other hand reached behind her back and the next moment she pressed a dagger to Chelsea's.

"Dead," Hannah announced and they stood there a moment, breathing heavily. Then, Hannah stepped back. "Always keep a spare weapon," she advised, "and always expect your opponent to have one."

Chelsea nodded. "What do you think?" She asked her friend. "Is this the biggest mistake of my life?"

Hannah smiled at her. "There's no one in this district with a better chance of winning. You're prepared. You have what it takes. The only thing in your way is chance."

"And do you think it's worth going against chance?" Chelsea asked.

Hannah searched her face for a long moment. Then, finally, her mouth quirked up again and she shrugged. "Chance may drown you tomorrow or throw you off a cliff in the arena. No one anywhere is safe from chance."

Chelsea smiled broadly and hugged her friend, thanking her. Then they replaced their weapons, Chelsea locked the door back, and they went their separate ways to prepare for the reaping, despite Chelsea inviting her friend over for breakfast.

"Please," she had implored. "It's a new recipe and I want a real opinion, not just my parents smiling and nodding while they really think about how excited they are for the reaping."

Hannah laughed at that, but shook her head all the same. "Sorry, but I should really head home. Somebody has to corral the kids to the reaping."

So they said their goodbyes.

A couple hours later, Chelsea's entire house smelled like spice and crab. Her parents wondered in as she was making her finishing touches. She greeted them brightly and her mother and father must have mistaken her excitement for enthusiasm about the games because they perked up. Her mother took a seat at the table, the sleepy glaze gone from her eyes and replaced by a cheerful sparkle. "Today's the day," she observed.

Chelsea was so tired of hearing that. She just wanted to eat her food.

"You must be excited," her father pressed when she didn't answer immediately, watching her with those big happy eyes as she set the table for breakfast. She wished he would stop looking at her like that. It only made her feel more guilty for not being as excited as they were. She could never understand how anyone could be excited to kill twenty-three other kids. She got excited about walks on the beach and cute boys and her new stuffed crab recipe. She was excited about all the new foods she was going to get to try in the Capital. She was excited that once all of this was over she could open a restaurant and make people happy with her food and not her ability to kill.

But she didn't have the heart to say any of that, so instead she smiled and replied, "It's a big day."

"You're going to be great!" Her father told her.

Chelsea thanked him and waited patiently as they assured her about the games, waiting for them to try the food. She was more than a little disappointed when they finally did start eating and only complimented her food off-handedly, as though on an afterthought.

Chelsea herself though it tasted amazing. Cordelia's recipes were always amazing though. She was even more disappointed when it was all gone. She started to clean off the table, but her mother waved her off. "You just focus on getting ready for the reaping!"

So Chelsea thanked her, and headed upstairs to prepare for the moment she would take on chance.

~Zidon Eversmith 14~

The best part about living on the oceanfront was the smell of ocean first thing in the morning. He loved the smell of fish and water and the way the rising sun shone off the water. He stood barefoot on the balcony and enjoyed the breeze running through his long brown locks. Inside his family was making breakfast, talking and laughing and teasing him for standing outside in his boxers and t-shirt, but he ignored them. It was all in good fun anyways. Below was the familiar sight of night fishers and crabbers bringing in their catch, shop owners setting up for the rush of reaping day celebrations, and the swinging brown ponytail of Chelsea Dover, who jogged along the waterfront every morning rain or shine. She would volunteer this year, he knew, and it was no surprise. Level-headed and talented and hard-working. No one deserved to win more, especially not that prick that had been chosen for the male tribute. Collin Marrow was the head trainer's son: lazy and stupid with no consideration for possible consequences due to his actions. He hadn't really beat any of the other eighteen-year-old candidates, but his father was determined he would volunteer so chosen he was. Zidon would not be sad to see him go.

His name drifted out to him from inside and he turned to find his sister standing at the door, eyebrows raised in that signature expression that said she had spoken to him several times and been ignored. He smiled sheepishly at her. "Sorry." Then moved away from the balcony and inside. The table was covered with plates of fish and bread and big pitchers of orange juice(a special treat that they only splurged for on reaping days).

"I think I'm going to hit the water today after the reaping," Zidon observed as he sat down to eat. "They say Cordelia is offering a free game day meal to anyone that can bring her several pounds of halibut. It's Chelsea Dover's favorite kind or something." It was true, Cordelia was looking to make a lot of halibut for the bloodbath viewing in honor of Chelsea, whom everyone knew was her prodigee. However, Zidon could have cared less for the free meal, he didn't even like halibut to be honest, he just liked any excuse to be on the open sea.

Caroline made a sound of interest around her fish then swallowed and said, "Sound like a good deal. Maybe I'll get in on it…" then a sly look crept into her face and she added, "Unless you'd rather bring that new friend of yours. What's his name?"

"It's none of your buissiness," Zidon actually didn't know his name. He was hit on so often by so many different people that keeping names together was irksome and tiring so he remembered them by his own nicknames. The particular boy Caroline was referring to he called Red-head-with-the-pretty-eyes. "And not really. He's not much of a fisherman even if he does try to pretend to be."

Caroline snorted with laughter. The rest of breakfast went much the same way as it had begun. They laughed and teased, Caroline commented about how much quieter the training center would be without Collin Marrow and there was a short discussion about how he might be killed. It never slipped past Zidon how sick it was when they made jokes like that about tributes or future tributes that they weren't fond of, but you had to lighten the mood of something so horrible somehow and anyways, it was never going to be anyone he really cared about in the arena. He and Caroline only trained for the off-chance they may be reaped. They were to intelligent to really fall for all of that brainwashing about honor and glory.

When they had finished breakfast and cleaned up, Caroline and Zidon headed out together. Their parents would come closer to time for the reaping to start but it was always better for Zidon and Caroline to head over early to avoid the lines of the last minute rush. As they walked Caroline fell into an uncharacteristic silence. They had made it off the beach and docks and into town by the time Zidone finally asked, "Is everything okay."

Caroline paused and looked around. There were quite a few people on the street, but none of them paid the two fisherman's children any mind. Nonetheless she pulled him off to the side and leaned against the old stained wall of the apothecary. "I got an invitation yesterday," she told him in a hushed voice.

He frowned at her and was silent for a moment waiting for an elaboration. When none came he pressed, "To a party?"

"No," she replied, almost cracking a smile. The moment passed quickly though and what she said next came with a blush. "I've been invited to compete for the volunteer spot next year."

The silence that followed was long. Zidone tried several times to say something, but couldn't manage anything. The way she looked at him didn't help either. Her searching gaze, like she was hoping to pull the response she wanted from him, but he had no idea what she wanted him to say. He knew what he wanted to say, but why would she even have told him if she was planning to do what he wanted her to. Finally, he managed, "Well you're going to say no, right?"

The corners of her mouth turned down and he knew that had been the wrong answer. "Why shouldn't I give it a go? I've trained longer than most of the people up there and I'm good!"

"The Hunger Games isn't like sparring or chopping up a dummy, Caroline!" He told her, huffing. "You're talking about volunteering to kill other people, not to mention other people could kill you!"

"Or," Caroline snapped back, clearly much more irritated at where this conversation had gone than she had expected to be, "I could win!" She paused as a small group of people walked by, staring at them. Once they had passed she continued in a quieter, more controlled voice, "And so what if I have to kill some kids to do it? They're gonna die anyways."

"I can't believe this," Zidone laughed despite himself. "They've brainwashed you too?"

"I'm not brainwashed!" She objected, but he interrupted her angrily.

"Anyone who can say something so callous as, 'they're going to die anyways' is brainwashed. Brainwashed by the Capitol and the trainers. Brainwashed into believing that it's okay to encourage kids to want to kill each other, okay to tell them to want to die, because we're saving kids who don't want to die from the same fate! These are the people we make fun of Caroline, not the people we become!"

Caroline scoffed and snarled, "Whatever!" Throwing up her hands. Then she stormed away, leaving him fuming alone by the wall. How could volunteering be something she could possibly want. He could killing people for the sick humor of the depraved Capitolites possibly sound like a good idea to her?

"Hey, Zidone!" He had been so caught up in his own brooding that it made him jump when he was joined by someone with a familiar shock of red hair. "Why are you hanging out here all by yourself? Should you be headed to the square?"

Zidone didn't respond. Instead he wrapped the boys shirt in his fist and dragged him into the alley. Once they had been consumed by the shadows of the apothecary cute little crafts store beside it he shoved the older boy into the wall and kissed him hard bringing a surprised squeak from the fiery-haired boy. The surprise only lasted a moment though, then red-head-with-the-pretty-eyes melted into him. He was good, Zidone gave him that, gentle but persistent, exploring the ridges on the roof of Zidone's mouth and the chips and crevices in his teeth where years of training had busted them up. And he smelled nice too, not like fish and sea or sweat and leather or anything else Zidone was used to. He smelled like spice and herb. Like medicine. The apothecary's son, Zidone realized and suddenly he knew his name too. It was Cress.

He pulled away and they both stood there a while, their faces cupped in each other's hands and breathing heavy. "You're really good, Cress." Zidone observed at last.

Cress's breath hitched and Zidone saw him smile in the little beams of light that peeped through between the buildings. "You know my name," he whispered breathlessly. "I didn't think you knew my name."

Zidone smiled and kissed him again, shorter this time, savoring the way Cress's head followed him as he pulled away. His squabble with his sister was forgotten, or at least dulled and his mind was clear again. He patted Cress's shoulder and said, "Find me again after the reaping." Then he headed off towards the square.

As the square filled up with the District's youth the air filled with the typical raucous cheer of reaping. Bets and teasing and jokes. Plans for volunteering in the future and recollections of past tributes. Listening to it all reminded Zidone of his fight with his sister and he fell into a brooding silence again as he stared up at the stage. At the bowls filled with names that were really only for show in District Four. His friends must have taken his silence for excitement because they got rowdier around him and began teasing, "Imagining the day you finally get to stand up there, huh?"

He just smiled faintly and ignored them. He didn't want to start another fight and he had found that if you smile vaguely people often didn't push you for an answer.

It was a great relief when the mayor finally took the stage and called for silence. Zidone was ready for this to be over. Ready to get back out on the open sea and maybe he would take Caroline's suggestion to heart and invite Cress. They could sit in the boat and kiss for real, hands exploring as much as tongues. He wondered what smell would be stronger the sea or Cress's herbs and spices.

As he had been daydreaming all of the boring affairs-the speeches and the video and the reading of District Four's long list of victors-passed and finally the escort made her way to the first bowl. Zidone didn't even listen to the first **name-no** one did. It was the name that came next that really mattered and sure enough out stepped Chelsea from the crowd of seventeens. She was beautiful in a long silver dress and a white ribbon holding up the thick brown locks. He wondered sometimes if her hair could be done any other way or if there a permanent groove where the tie rested against the back of her skull.

Zidone tried to imagine Caroline mounting those steps like that, head held high, eyes searching the crowd, daring someone to challenge her, but all he could think was how sad it would be too see the life drain from Chelsea's eyes. He wondered if Cordelia would still serve free meals in exchange for halibut after Chelsea's face appeared among the dead on the tribute list this year. Would her mother still train hopeful tributes or would she ever be able to look at that center again without regretting what she had done to her daughter?

"Zidone Eversmith?"

He jumped at the sound of his name, but moved quickly anyways. His name didn't matter and the sooner he got up there the sooner the real tribute could take his place. He took his spot next to the escort who asked immediately for volunteers. There was movement in the eighteen-year-old section. Yes, there was Collin now, lanky and dark-headed, he was hard to miss in the crowd. But then he stopped abruptly and turned. Zidone saw someone holding his arm, clinging desperately to him. A girl-Zidone didn't recognize her, but Collin must have known her because they had a fierce arguement in hushed voices. Several people were looking around, whispering and pointing. Zidone saw him try to pull away as the escort asked again for volunteers, a little more uncertainly this time. The girl pulled back at him and said a little louder, "No! Collin please! I love you!"

And then the crowd went silent. Collin stared at her, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. No one moved or spoke until finally the escort asked one last time, "Young man? Do you wish to volunteer?"

Collin finally tore his eyes from the girl and stared up at the stage. At the escort. At Zidone. Then he shook his head and dissolved again into the crowd. There was another long ringing moment of silence and finally the escort announced, her words more a question and not just because of her absurd Capitol accent. "Well then, there you have it ladies and gentlemen? Your tributes: Chelsea Dover and Zidone Eversmith."

The world was spinning. He couldn't move, he couldn't see. This wasn't supposed to happen. His name didn't matter. The first name never mattered. He was supposed to go home, to float out at sea and kiss Cress and forget about the fact that Caroline was considering trying to volunteer for the games.

Someone grabbed his hand and shook it. Then the crowd disappeared before him and he was being marched through the big doors of the Justice Building and still his mind wasn't working. It was stuck, repeating the same stupid, ignorant thing over and over.

 _Someone was supposed to volunteer!_

~Chelsea Dover 17~

"He was supposed to volunteer!" Chelsea was pacing around the room, the dress her mother had picked out getting endlessly under her feet and nearly tripping her. "He was chosen to volunteer! He took the opportunity from plenty of other boys that would never have thrown it away like that!"

"We always knew Collin was a spineless little coward," Hannah observed bordly from her position sprawled on the couch. "It's probably a good thing he's not your district partner."

"Right and the fourteen-year-old is so much more encouraging!" Chelsea rolled her eyes, scoffing, turned on her heel as she reached the door and marched back across the room.

Hannah shrugged. "Zidone has training, in fact he started training sooner than any of us did. He has probably logged as many years in the training halls as me."

"But not as many hours," Chelsea replied darkly and Hannah didn't object. The tribute paused by the window and stared down at the crowd dissipating below, shaking her head as she thought. "Why didn't someone else step up. One of those boys that wanted so badly too have his chance not even a month ago? Why didn't they rush on the chance?"

Hannah shrugged. "Honor I suppose. He was supposed to volunteer, everyone wanted to give him as much of a chance as they could, and then they ran out of time."

"Honor is stupid," Chelsea decided.

"Well you're right about that," Hannah conceded, stretching and yawning. "Honor gets people killed in places like the arena."

"What will we do now? The career pack is dependent on having six strong careers. You know what happens when we get stuck with a weak link."

"Well, if Zidone does turn out to be too weak of a link then it's likely the pack will fall apart and you'll be forced to survive on your own, but that's a bridge you'll just have to cross when you get to it. Right now we know that Zidone is trained, has been training for as long as we have, and that will have to do too get the rest of the pack to accept him. And if he turns out to be useless than you'll just have to pick a strong outer district tribute to fill his gap and dispose of him as soon as possible."

"You're suggesting killing my district partner?" Chelsea accused, glaring at her.

Hannah shrugged again and grinned that sly, scary grin of hers. "Remember what I said about honor?"

 _"What is honor compared to a woman's love?...Wind and words. Wind and Words..."_

 **Thank you so much for reading and to those who submitted. I hope everyone enjoyed this and again I look forward to this story so much!**

 **IceandFire**


	4. Deserve: District 2 Reaping

**Hello!**

 **So this took forever. Im not going to lie, it's probably always going to be like this. I'm very busy and sometimes I don't even get a chance to sit down and write for over a week. It sucks but, you know, what's a girl to do?**

 **Also I have received a few more submissions and hopefully updated the lists by the time you're reading this. I'm down to only a couple spots left which is less than I thought I would have to fill myself when this started so I'm so excited! THank everyone so much for your support and your feedback!**

 **I wrote this chapter in a different Point of View than the previous chapters because I've been testing different perspectives and this is the one I personally preferred. Let me know what you think though! If this perspective has a good response I may go back and rewrite the others this way(District Four's reaping at least.)**

 **So here we are! District Two! I own almost nothing.**

 **Enjoy!**

~District 2 Reaping~

~Apollo Wells 18~

The basement smells like sweat and dried blood, underlying the overwhelming must of mold and old basement. It's not the best smell in the world, but this is where I started, where I trained for years and it only feels right that this is where I train my last time…Well that and teh training center is closed today, which I find stupid. Why close the place to train for the Hunger Games on the day people are selected for it? This is the day that the younger candidates will be more motivated too go work out. What kid doesn't look at the tributes standing proud on the stage, ready to bring honor to their district, ready to comepete in the most thrilling game ever created, and isn't flooded with a desire to work harder and make it up their themselves?

But maybe that's just me regrettting the lose of the fancy dummies and balanced weapons and much more pleasent smell of the training center. Maybe it's better that my last training session in District 2 isn't in a fancy center. The games aren't going to have pads to land on if you fall or glowing targets to tell you where critical hits are. This is probably closer to what I'll get. And anyways, I know why the center is closed. Technically training is against the rules and there are far too many peacekeepers and capitolites in town to risk people flooding in to train. We couldn't lose the center. What would District 2 be without its careers?

My arm smarts as the edge of my brother's blade slams into it. If it had been an edged sword, I probably would have lost my hand, or at least suffered a brutal injury that would have put it out of commission for the fight. I laugh at the as I parry his next swing and duck my head to roll under his still swinging arm and tag him in the back with the flat of my own blade. If I were really trying to kill him, that would have been the moment it happened. Since I'm not however, he only stumbles forward, huffing as the wind is knocked out of him.

He hits the ground hard, struggling to keep a hold on his sword and I leap into the air, sword held high over my head for a downstrike. He recovers quickly though, and rolls onto his back in time to raise his sword and stop my blow. The swords quiver violently and my hand feels numb from the vibration. That's what I get for using a blade with a poorly wrapped grip. My hand goes numb and I nearly drop the blade. Pierre takes advantage of the resulting hesitation and forces his sword up and out, effectively shoving me away.

I'm smiling broadly as he rolls backwards and away, creating even more distance between us. "Giving yourself more time to evaluate, good tactic," I compliment. He grins. I don't warn him that it also gives me time to evaluate as well. I'm considering jumping on a table to gain high ground when he charges at me.

I parry his swords and use his momentum to knock his foot out from under him with my own, "Lunging," I observe, "less good." I step back to avoid his attempts to sweep my ankles with his sword and he uses the time the distance gives him to kip up. We level our swords at each other, circling like I saw birds do over dead bodies in an arena a few years ago. We're both breathing heavily and sweat pours in fat drops, dripping into my eyes and my mouth. Pierre, whose sandy-blond hair is longer then mine, has to flick the sweat drenched locks constantly out of his eyes, which makes focusing on what I'm doing more difficult. That's why I keep mine fairly short.

I'm about to attack while Pierre is distracted with his hair when the door opens and someone huffs irritably. It's my mother standing on the other side, hands on her hips and scowling. She wears that expression a lot. Where most parents have laugh lines, my mother has scowl lines. She's pretty despite it though, maybe even for it, because it makes her look different, and other than the scowl lines she looks good for her age. Younger than my father at least, despite how close in age they are. "The reapings start in a couple of hours and the two of your are down here making yourself smell like animals!" She accuses.

I push sweat-soaked hair from my forehead, chuckling and Pierre shrugs, replying, "It's his last chance to train."

"There's nothing he can learn this morning that will save him in the games," She asserts stubbornly, and the lines in her face seem to deepen at the mention of my plans. She has never approved of my intentions today. Her and my father are afraid I'll die, but I know better. "Anyways," she continues half-heartedly, "He'll have two full days to train in the Capitol."

"The Capitol training days are only to scare the competition," Pierre scoffs, "It's not as though any Capitolite is ever gonna be able to teach him anything useful."

I had to agree. All of the trainers at the center were trained by/with victors at some point or another. They had experience on their side. What sort of real fighting experience could a Capitolite really have? Maybe a hundred years ago when they had soldiers fresh out of a war, but now all of the Capitolites are just spoiled and pansy. That's why tribute mentors are victors instead of just the escorts.

My mother shakes her head. "Well, you've had your training now. Off with the both of you, I've drawn a bath."

We respect her request and return our swords to their rack. They are old, dull and nicked, even more so now than they were when my brother originally snatched them from those weapons tossed out of the training center once a year. When the training first started that was all it was, a basement and some used swords. The training center's nice and useful I have to admit now that I have been going for a couple of years, but I may never have even joined if not for the fact that I need the trainers approval to volunteer without being shunned by my district and the other careers. Every once in a while it's nice to train here though. It's more authentic, as I mentioned before, and more nostalgic. Like stepping right back into my eleven-year-old body and reliving the moment my brother put the heavy sword in my and and said, "Think fast."

He'd hit me a lot at first, and he didn't hold back. I would go to bed so sore and bruised that I would cry every time I moved. He still got me every now and again, the bruise forming on my wrist now is proof of that, but it was far less frequent and I always get him back, plus some.

Pierre lets me have the first go in the bath so the water is still hot and the heat takes some of the soreness out of my bones. I wash quickly, then I slip into the white shirt and black pants I have chosen for the reaping and get out while the water is still warm. Maybe Pierre's bones will feel as relaxed as mine do.

The kitchen smells like breakfast. Eggs and fresh baked bread and sausage. My mother is standing over the cook fire and my father sits at the table. His hair is stark white from where age had been at it and he wears a patch over one empty socket. He has laugh lines, unlike my mother, but other lines as well. Worry lines. Lines made by stress and strife.

I choose a boiled egg from the pot in the sink. As I'm peeling away the shell my father says from his seat at the table, mopping up yolk with a piece of bread, "Happy reaping day." He doesn't sound as though it's as much a day to celebrate as I feel it is. Only like it's something his has to get through, an obstacle. He is as sceptable about my plan as my mother. I understand, or at least I try to, but it's a real buzz kill when half of the people whose opinions really care about don't think something you've always wanted is a good idea.

But I don't say that. A fight would be worse than the doubt, and besides, they try and that's just as important...right?

I pop the egg in my mouth whole, earning a disapproving sound from my mother, then say goodbye and head out towards the square.

~Silk Guerra 17~

The world outside my window is beautiful. The sun shines, making everything sharper, brighter; like a kids painting. Sweet, innocent. Children run in the streets, District Two banners streaming behind them, dressed in their best, hair done up in beautiful and elaborate styles. They laugh and tease, wrestle in the streets to the great dismay of their mothers when they rise with tussled hair and stained clothes. I can hear my father in the kitchen, preening. He's getting what he always wanted today. His daughter has been the talk of the district for over a week now, ever since she was selected to volunteer for the games.

I think it's curious. In books and stories the weather always reflects a plot. It always tells the story before anything happens. It's a device. But in real life the weather is just the weather. No one has bad feelings. No one really guesses everything is about to change. There are no premonitions; whether by the weather or any other force.

For example, my father has no idea that I'm about to ruin everything. Oh his family will be talked about for sure. We'll be remembered for several years, even if I die. No one ever remembers the selected volunteer that dies, but the girl that stole the Hunger Games right out from under her sister's nose? That they'll remember maybe even for a generation or two. They'll remember my name. But that's not the kind of legacy my father wants to leave.

But that's okay. He never liked me anyways.

I stand from my window seat, setting aside the book I was trying to read. I hoped to finish it this morning, but there was too much to think about. Too much noise, outside and in my head. So instead I change into my reaping dress, beautiful dark blue silk that looks amazing with my tanned skin and dark hair. It's a luxury, but reaping day's a special day, especially this one. Everyone will want to congratulate us when my sister volunteers. Or at least that's what my mom was thinking when she spent the money on it.

My mother will understand why I did it. Jade will tell her and she will understand. At least I hope. My mother's disappointment is what I fear most. She's the most like me out of all of my family, or anyone else I've ever met for that matter. She taught me about cleverness, about how thinking and planning were better than any amount of training. She's the reason I'm brave enough to do this.

I hope she teaches that to Jade's baby if I die. I hope my niece or nephew is smarter than my sister. What sort of fool goes out and makes a baby when she knows she's going to be trying to volunteer for a death match anyways?

I smile sadly thinking about that. No, Jade was never as smart as my mother and I. She always took more after her namesake. Jade was born the last day of the 81st Hunger Games, the year Jade Collins of District 1 won her Hunger Games. My father thought it was a sign. To be sure the reckless, bull-headed victor was a great deal like my sister.

I choose a silver and jade necklace to go with my dress. It's my sister's actually, my mother loved nothing more than symbolism, a silk dress for me and a jade necklace for Jade. But I took it from her room just last night. Having my sister so close would give me strength, I hoped, to do what I had to do today.

I slip out of a back door. I don't want to see them, especially not my mother. I don't want to have to look them in the eye and lie. Not that lying is an issue for me morally. Lies were useful. But lying to people I cared about, and people who knew me really well, was exhausting and best avoided.

Many people call to me as I make my way to the square. I'm well known in our district and not just because I'm Jade's sister. I have my own name, my own reputation. I'm what most of them want to be: beautiful and smart in ways most of them can only dream of being, and charismatic enough to turn what could easily be resentment into love.

And arrogant if you ask my father, like that's not the pot calling the kettle black.

The square is already crowded by the time I sign in and make my way to the section filled with the other seventeen-year-olds. My classmates. My peers. Most of them will hate me after today. All of their smiles and friendly greetings will turn into scowls and accusations. Even if I win I'll just be the victor that shouldn't have gone. But Jade will have her baby, one way or the other, and maybe someday she can live vicariously through him or her... or maybe if I die for her she'll see the truth behind the games and raise her child to respect life, every life.

I want that for my niece or nephew, just as much as I want wisdom.

Closer to time for the reapings to start my sister passes me on the way to her section and hugs me, saying, "We missed you this morning."

I shrug. "I had things to do."

She doesn't press the issue. She fiddles with the necklace, smiling and comments, "It looks better on you." then meanders on towards her own section right in front of mine, greeting her friends in that usual, squealing way girls do. Sometimes I can't believe we're related. Jade is so simple; happy and thoughtless. Convinced that no consequences apply to her. The thought makes me feel a little better about today. Maybe there was a reason this happened when it did. Maybe that kid has saved my sister's life. I mean, could someone with so little grasp of consequences really win the Hunger Games?

I touch the necklace, smiling at the thought as the mayor's voice comes over the speakers. He his a hard man, with sharp features and broad shoulders and a voice with enough authority to make the entire square fall silent and listen. If ever a leader reflected the reputation of his people it was Mayor Ronan. He makes his way through the usual formalities and hands the mic over to the Capitol escort. Her name was Bryony I knew and she was as unextraordinarily Capitolite as one would expect. She chirped through her own formalities as swiftly as the mayor then waited impatiently as the peacekeepers brought the bowls onstage.

"Now," she says as the bowls are finally situated and the peacekeepers make their way off the stage. "Your young lady."

She makes her way to the bowl, plucks out the first name and comes back. She doesn't bother with any sort of suspense tactics. Everyone knws the name she picked doesn't matter anyways. So she rips the paper open and starts to called a name I don't hear. Under other circumstances, a volunteer would wait to be asked for, but I have no time to wait. I have to beat Jade to the punch, so I rush to the stage before whoever was chosen can even move. There are some indignant shouts as I shove through the crowd. Some people realize what's happening and shout at my sister. They advise her to try to beat me, and she moves towards the steps, but I skip that entirely and vault myself right up from the front, then brush off my dress and say calmly to the escort, "I volunteer."

Bryony looks stunned. "Well," she says uncertainly, "Normally volunteers wait to be called on."

"What's the difference in a volunteer now and one in less than a minute?" I ask her reasonably.

She glances uncertainly over at Jade, who scowls for the camera's and the crowd, although I know my sister and I can see the relief behind her eyes. "Well...it's just a little unfair I think."

I almost laugh. Unfair? Since when does fair apply to the Hunger Games? To life in general but especially to a contest that involves shipping twenty-four kids off to fight each other once a year as retribution for a war their parents parents likely don't even remember? I keep the snort down, however, and smile sweetly instead. "If what the other volunteers want is fair they'll be sadly disappointed if they ever make it into the arena."

The crowd was quieter than I ever could have imagined so many people in me place could be. Nobody seems to even breath. Finally, after a long moment of thought-likely seeking a valid argument which she didn't seem to find- Bryony said, "Very well then. And what's your name?"

"Silk Guerra."

There's a great uproar behind me and I turn again to see the peacekeepers forcefully dragging Jade away. She's kicking and screaming and I almost tell them to lay off, but then I realize she's yelling at me. She's putting on a show. I suppose she isn't half as dull-witted as I gave her credit for.

"And now your young man!" Bryony says hastily, trying to defuse the situation. The crowd is getting antsy now, shifting and muttering. A low roar has now enveloped the sea of people. Bryony rushes to the boys' bowl, grabs a name, then hurries back, starting to read the name, but she's interrupted. A boy barrels out of the eighteen-year-old section and takes the steps two at a time, shouting, "I volunteer!" Over and over as though they may not have heard him the first time. I know him, of course. He's in the same year as my sister, tall and with the expected physique of a career. His sandy-blonde hair was likely spiked up at the beginning of the reaping but is now tussled and in disarray. When he finally reaches us he straightens up and grins at Bryony.

"Now really," Bryony scolds, huffing. "There are procedures for a reason people."

"I'm Apollo Wells," he continues as though he hasn't heard her. He only trained at the center for a couple of years, but he had to have been trained elsewhere beforehand because he was already impressive when he started. There had been little doubt who would be selected for the male volunteer, and by the way he's looking at me, I've just made an enemy already. Not that it bothers me. I never wouldn't have wanted Apollo as my ally anyways. I don't trust something in his eyes, in how pleased he is at the idea of the idea of a fight to the death. Where most candidates want glory or riches or honor, he seems to think the games are going to be _fun._ I don't think I could trust someone so happy at the thought of murdering twenty-three peers, some significantly younger than him.

Bryony huffs. "Well, very well then. Ladies and gentlemen of District 2, your tributes for the 99th Annual Hunger Games: Silk Guerra and Apollo Wells."

When we shake hands, Apollo squeezes mine so tightly that I fear he may break it. Then we are lead away into the Justice Building and into separate rooms to say our final goodbyes.

 _"What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms... or the memory of a brothers smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."_

 **Thank everyone so much for reading! I hope we all enjoyed!**

 **~IceandFire~**


	5. Deserve: District 6 Reaping

**Hi again!**

 **A couple things before we get to the story.**

 **First: Thanks again to everyone who has been leaving feedback. I have some very intelligent readers with very interesting thoughts that I enjoy reading and some things that are pointed out that help me improve the story so I definitely appreciate all of you!**

 **Second: We are now officially closed. Actually got my last two tributes this morning, which is awesome because I didn't want to have to fill any spots with my own tributes!**

 **I'm also in the market for a beta reader. I always go over my writing before posting to try and fix as much as possible, but as I'm sure y'all have noticed I don't always catch everything. So if anyone knows a good beta I'd lve a recommendation. I'm kind of looking for someone who doesn't have a tribute in this story though, because I might bounce ideas off of them and I don't really want too many biased opinions.**

 **Okay, that's all the announcements. So here's District 6! I don't really know what my problem with this reaping was, but I just wasn't satisfied with anything I was writing. I guess some kind of weird writer's block? Idk. But I don't know that this isn't my best work. I just hope I did justice to these wonderful characters!**

 **I don't own the Hunger Games. And I've been forgetting to do this but thank you to Elim9 and Daughter of StaticQuake for these tributes as well as to BabyRue11, Comettail76, upsettomcat42, and withlipstickasmywarpaint for Zidon, Chelsea, Apollo, and Silk.**

~District 6~

~Luna Bridger 13~

The trains are stopped for the reaping. Ours pulled in early this morning. My family slept through the arrival, although I had no idea how. From where I was huddled in the corner it felt as though the noise must have woken the entire district. The way the wheels squealed and the cars creaked and they blew that stupid whistle the entire time. I wanted to curl up and disappear, hide from it all. And that wasn't even taking into account the way we swayed as though our boxcar may tumble over and spill us out onto the hard packed earth in the yard or the messy way we jerked to a stop, making everything slide around. Most of the cars are empty, so the engineers likely aren't concerned about being gentle, never mind that such carelessness can damage the machinery. _I'm going to check on that,_ I had decided as I hadnlingered just inside and watched the engineers drop down from the engine and head off into the district.

Now, as they're voices finally fade away I drop down, stretching. It feels good to be out of that box, to stretch my legs and feel the ground not moving beneath me. To have space to be alone. That was my least favorite part of our life jumping trains: If I got tired of having people around, which was most of the time, I couldn't just take a walk. I was stuck, but here I could explore the train yard, hide in some broken down car and wait for the sun to rise high in the sky, signaling the time for me to go spend a few hours crowded by people in District 6's square. The thought of the reading made the hairs all over my body stand on end. I take the frustration at the thought out on a nearby rock, kicking it as hard as I can. It skitters underneath a train car.

Whose idea was a public reaping anyways? Let's crowd the entire district into one small space and then pick two kids to die. Better too just send peacekeepers to pick the kids up in the middle of the night. It's more ominous that way and then I wouldn't have to stand amongst all the other kids my age and want to die for a couple of hours.

But then, I guess, if we weren't all crowded together like that, they wouldn't be able to find homeless kids like me and my brothers. Those orphans or kids whose parents were sick or crippled or just not talented at any of the skills necessary to live in District 6. The homeless made up as much of District 6's population as those with roofs over their heads, but that doesn't matter to anyone...

And why do we have to pay to live anyways? Forget food or water, we have to pay just to breath on a peice of land and if we don't? What happens to those people. My older brother told me that before we began jumping the trains my family would just find a spot of ground to sleep on at night and hope we didn't freeze or get attacked by a wild animal or, worse, another person. Shopkeepers would run them off for digging through the garbage, as though they still needed anything in there. My eldest brother, Chicory, has a scar down one side of his face where a peacekeeper hit him with the butt of his gun for standing in one place too long.

Just thinking about the injustice of it all makes my face hot with anger. My eyes swim and the next large rock I find I scoop up and fling at the side of a train. It clangs loudly and bounces off to the left somewhere. The paint on the train is scuffed from where it struck. A head pokes around the closest opening, another train jumper, and he shouts, "Hey! Cool it, you tryna' get us all runned off?"

I turn my back on him, saying nothing, and head on. There's no one here to run us off anyways. All the peacekeepers will be in the district square setting up for the reaping and the engineers have all gone to spend time with their families. Some of them have kids or other family eligible for the reapings. Others are eligible themselves. No, the only people in the yard today will be us. The train hoppers. The homeless.

I head to the engine, remembering my resolve too check it out and sure enough the reckless engineers have caused severe damage to a couple carriage wheels, grating them so suddenly against the tracks the way they do. They'll need to be replaced, but those incompetent kids driving this thing won't realize anything's wrong until they're derailed somewhere between here and District 9. Fortunately I have a stash of equiptment and a very large supply of working parts. So I climb out from under the train and jog across the yard. At the very back is the train graveyard, where those cars and engines and unusable parts are discarded. Its my favorite place, partially because no one ever comes back here and partially because it's like my own personal library. You can read a train's story if you pay close attention. Can know where they traveled and what they were used for. How they ended up here.

The one I'm headed for is a box car, huge and silver with slits all along it. One side is completely caved in, like it was hit by something big, another train probably. The car still smells like animal, even as long as it's been sitting in this yard. It was used too transport goods from District 10. I've seen these trains before, once my parents even tried to make me get on one. I remember screaming and kicking. I caused such a big scene that we had been forced to lay low for a couple days to be sure we weren't caught. But I couldn't get on that train. They stuffed the animals in there, cramped up so close they could barely move, and shipped them away to be killed. Slaughtered. Even now, as I drag my tool bag from the smallest corner in the deformed car. The memory plagues me as I take carriage wheels off a discarded engine and replace them on the train I took here.

Maybe because that's how we are treated. My family and every other that has trouble making a penny to buy bread. We are forced to dig in trash cans and sleep on the ground and to no gain. Most of the time we die from starvation or hyperthermia. No sympathy, no help.

No dignity

~Bentley Leidart 17~

"Our own sense of dignity is what it comes down to," I assert as we walk. The sight of the girl being beaten on the street corner while people stream around the scene, trying not to look, is still lodged at the front of my brain. And for what crime? How did prostitution hurt anyone? I hadn't done anything either, of course, which I can't claim to be proud of, but what could I have done? I'm a thinker more than a doer. So that's what I'm doing: I'm thinking...and I'm talking. "And I don't get why the Capitol or whoever is in charge of that law can tell people what they can and can't do to make some money when they're desperate."

My best friend Timon is walking to my left, peering into shop windows as we pass them and seemingly disinterested in what we had seen or what I think about it. On my other side is his little sister. She's a year younger, sweet and shy, but smart. That's why I fell in love with her and why it makes my heart so happy as we walk together down the street, hands intertwined. She does respond, "I think it's because they get trapped and then used as human slaves and that's what the government is trying to prevent."

That makes even less sense. Why punish someone because of what other people are doing to them? What's that old saying about beating the messenger? Or is it shooting the messenger...I can't remember. At any rate, that's quite a bit worse than beating them because they have a different way of earning money than you and I say as much, then add, "And at any rate, since when does the Capitol care about our freedom?" if they cared about our freedoms wouldn't we be allowed to travel? To speak our minds? Would it today even be something we had to go through? Because how can you take away the children of free people and throw them in an arena to kill each other.

Timon scoffed, finally roused to join the conversation as he looks at the fancy cakes they always put out for reaping day. "I don't care what you say, selling your body for anything is stupid And if you don't have enough dignity or pride in your own body or whatever to treat it like it's worth more than a few bucks than you deserve to be beaten in the streets."

That made my jaw clench irritably. "They're not selling it for a few bucks. They're selling it for their next meal. They're selling it to live."

"If we can get jobs and make livings as young as we did, they can find something better than that to earn money."

"Not all of them are in it by choice," Viola put in, her voice distant and sad at the thought. Her fingers squeeze my arm faintly. "Sometimes pimps take them right off the street or out of their mother's arms and say, 'This is going to be your life now' and they have no choice but to do it." Then she lowered her voice and squeezed my arm harder, saying, "And you shouldn't say things about the Capitol like that. Not with this many peacekeepers around."

She was right about that. The streets were crowded with people, all heading towards the square. The reaping would start soon and rush hour had set in. It was a sad sort of rush though. Fear and sullenness hung tangibly in the air. Parents lead children by their hand-especially those twelve and thirteen-year-olds who were still so young yet old enough to be reaped-and shied away if the many peacekeepers that stood about in the street and square looked at them, as though somehow the men and women in white would make sure their child was reaped if they made eye contact or looked in the wrong direction for too long.

Her comment about the pimps bothers me though, and I can't just let it slide. "Everyone has a choice," I assert.

They don't say anything more. Maybe they sensed the irritation in my voice, or maybe they just know how I can get. I have a habit of getting to involved in debates sometimes and things have been known to get ugly. That doesn't mean I'm happy to see the conversation ended. It's always interesting to hear other people's thoughts on a matter even if I'm the one who's right.

By the time we reach the square the sign-in stations are crowded and noisy. Teenagers shout and jostle each other. Twelve-year-olds huddle close together and stare around in awe at the mayhem. It's so different here from the solemnness of their parents. It's so much easier for teenagers to forget that they're waitting to be drawn for a death match. That two of us could die. It's so easy to think that it won't be you. We're invincible. But our parents, they know better. They've been watching teenagers die for years. Most of them have known at least one of the tributes in their lifetimes. A friend or a friend's child. A sibling, a lover. The kid that comes into their shop every other day and buys the same thing.

"I wish they wouldn't be so obnoxious," Viola complains as a boy, probably her age, slams into her trying to back away from the assault of his friend. He apologizes, laughing and goes back to his line, still rough-housing.

"What would you prefer they do?" I tease, kissing her hair. I love the way it smells, like soap, but with the ever present underlying smell of motor oil. "Sulk and brood like all of the adults?"

"That would be better than running into everyone and being a pain," Viola insists, although she wears a smile that tells me she doesn't really mean it. Sometimes it's easier to complain than to acknowledge what is actually happening.

Finally, we get signed in and head to our sections. Timon and I stand in the back of our section so we can talk to Viola as the last of the kids get signed in and the mayor takes the stage. I hold Viola's hand behind my back, enjoying the feel of her. It makes the dullness of the formalities more bearable. I humor myself imagining how one day we'll stand together in the crowd of ineligibles, and we won't have a rope between us when we hold each other. The mayor's speech is the same every year, as is the escort's and the video we are forced to watch. No one really pays attention to any of it. The only part that really interests anyone is the bowls, which are now being brought onto stage.

The low murmur of voices that had been making up the background of what was happening onstage silenced when the escort announced, "Ladies First." No one even seemed to move. It was the same thing I noticed before with the parents. Like one wrong move or making even a sound could mean it's your name that the escort will call. The square is holding its breath. You can hear every clack of the escort's ridiculous heels on the stage. The sound is driving me insane as she crosses to the girls' bowl and draws a name, then makes her way back. Around me girls are huddling close together, clenching each others' hands tightly and doing all of the things that girls do to make themselves feel better in times like this. Viola is squeezing my own hand so hard that I'm starting to worry it might break.

The escort begins to unfold the paper. She takes a ludicrous amount of time doing it. Like she enjoys every second of anticipation. I wish she would just hurry up. It starts getting hard to tell yourself everything is going to be okay the longer you have to repeat it. Also, I'm pretty sure if Viola squeezes my hand this hard any longer my fingers will fall off.

"Luna Bridger."

And finally relief, and mostly I'm talking about my hand, which Viola finally loosenes her grip on at the sound of the unfamiliar name. She's safe this year. Nothing to break my hand over anymore, at least until they draw the boy's name.

In the meantime, there's the poor girl whose name just got drawn. I don't recognize the name, and it doesn't seem like anyone else does either. Normally you can guess where the tribute is within a few seconds because at least the peers in their own section recognize their name from class or playing in the streets. Most people are staring around, though, frowning, until finally the girl steps out of the section of thirteen-year-olds. That makes my heart sink. It's always worse when they're young. Don't ask me why, it's irrational if you really think about it, but I guess it's just human nature. You protect the young. It's a rule or something.

Luna is tall, for her age anyways, and thin. Light brown hair falls into her pale face, making it difficult to really make out any details, but her body is stiff as she walks to the stage. The escort greets her cheerfully as she climbs the steps, but when the girl says nothing in response to her prompting the Capitolite clears her threat uncomfortably and moves on.

"Now for our male," she announces as Luna takes her place. She seems to go a bit faster this time, but maybe that's because I'm more anxious. This slip of paper could hold my name. Or maybe this one will hold some little kid's name, too. I cringe at that particular thought, glancing guiltily at Luna, and also at the pain in my hand as Viola squeezes it again. Is she squeezing harder this time? I think my hand may actually break now. A large part of me wishes she would stop. It really hurts.

I turn to ask her to lighten up and it's then that I see the tears in her eyes. "What's wrong?" I ask, surprised. Then I hear it:

"Do we have a Bently Leidart?"

And at the same moment I finally notice the people around me. My peers, my best friend, all staring at me. It's just like I said, you can usually tell who's been reaped. And this time it's me. They're staring at me...

I've been reaped.

I reach down and pull Viola's hand away from mine, trying for a reassuring smile. It's okay, I tell myself, making my way forward, through the crowd of my classmates and friends. They stare at me in that way you stare at a person who has just been drawn for death. Sad, pitying, but relieved. Yes, the relief is there, I can see it hiding behind their eyes. I can't blame them, but it still eats me up inside.

And as I mount the steps of the stage the thought crosses my mind, so absurd that I almost laugh aloud. I guess I was wrong before. You don't always have a choice. I'm going to have to kill other kids, maybe even a few young ones like Luna, and there's nothing I can do about it. I don't have a choice...I guess I'll have to tell Viola when she comes to say goodbye. She'll keel over when she hears me admit I'm wrong. I don't think I've ever had to do that.

"Excellent," our escort asserts as I take my place beside Luna. She's so much smaller than me, and part of me thinks that's good. One less older stronger tribute to take down in the arena. I should hate myself for that, but it makes sense. It's what I need. I need to win this and I can't do it if I start seeing the little ones as anything less than an easy target...

I don't have a choice.

 _"Sometimes a man has to make hard choices, choices that might look wrong to others, but you know are right in the long run."_

 **Okay! Just a friendly reminder: if you skipped over me talking at the beginning, just make sure to go back and at least read the numbered items and let me know if you can help me out!**

 **Thanks so much for reading!**

 **IceandFire86**


	6. Deserve: District 12 Reaping

**Hi Again!**

 **Thanks again to everyone reviewing and faving and following! You guys' support is awesome!**

 **Also, I realized that I don't have an updated tribute list int eh first chapter of this story...oops! Gonna get around t fixing that soon!**

 **I don't own any of this stuff that I didn't create. Thanks to Monica Towa and withlipstickasmywarpaint of your tributes!**

 **Enjoy!**

District 12 Reaping~

~Poppy Quick 15~

The fear in District Twelve is palpable. You can see it in that way children slink through the streets. The way all of the windows have something drawn over them and the doors are all closed tight. Even those few creatures that lurk around the district can sense it. Pets are inside or following closely behind child owners, looking about nervously. The strays don't come out to beg or dig through trash cans. They're hidden somewhere, waiting out the storm they can sense coming. That's the most alarming part I think, not seeing the emaciated animals about. It's horrible to see, but it also a bit comforting in a sick sort of way. Something constant. Something normal.

But nothing about reaping day is really normal. Some places have made it almost seem normal over the years, some places have even made it a celebration. I wonder what Reaping Day looks like in District Two or One. Do this children laugh? Do they run through the streets with banners supporting the volunteers? I know that when I watch the reapings every year, the career districts always look colorful and alive. The tributes come forward in beautiful, clean dresses and pants and shirts. But even after nearly a hundred reapings District Twelve still looks dull. There are no banners or bright cloths. Most outfits are faded and dark, excluding some of the richest members of the Distict. Everyone here knows in a way what the other Districts prefer to forget. Two of our children will die today. One of them might be me.

My mother comes to get me for breakfast as I stand in the middle of my room, an old t-shirt still damp in my hand where I had used it to squeeze the water from my hair after my bath. I'm looking out the window, watching the quiet district outside. I hear the door open, but don't look. I just keep staring out of the window. "It's weird without the train whistles," I say by way of greeting. Every other day of the year you can hear the whistles at the break of dawn, calling the miners to their duty. Today the streets are silent.

I don't envy the miners their jobs. Hours of every day spent down in the bowels of the earth. It's hot down there- or so I've been told-and stuffy and I think it must be so claustrophobic with the earth pressing all around you like that.

"It used to be the worst part of the day when those whistles blew," my mother tells me. Her voice sounds as tired as she looks when I turn to face her. I suppose I will look tired too if I live to be her age and see so much...lose so much. "It used to mean that it was time for my father to leave and then-later-time for your father too leave."

"And now?"

"Now?" She repeats, I can see her fingers squeezing the towel she's holding, knuckles white, as though clutching at everything that had been taken from her. My grandfather when I was a baby; he died of a lung disease.. That's not uncommon with miners. All of the particles climb in and make their nests, and the lungs get so full that they explode. Or maybe the dust and everything is more like a parasite. Coming in and killing everything and leaving behind holes in the places behind them.

Sort of like the what the Capitol does annually.

And my father...He died in an accident. That's not uncommon either. The earth is unpredictable, and sometimes it just collapses in on itself. Like it can't handle the weight of the world on top of it. Then people die.

"Now it doesn't means nothing," my mother answered me softly, and gives a mirthless smile. "I suppose nothing is better than the pain though."

I disagree, but don't say so. Instead I smile and walk with her to the kitchen. We eat breakfast in silence. What is there to say? What words can make the pain of knowing I could be chosen for a death match today-the pain of knowing that my mother may lose the last person she has left in this messed up world?

My stomach clenches, objects. I'm not hungry, but I eat anyways. You don't waste food when it's so hard to come by. When tomorrow you might get nothing. When this stale peice of bread may have to last you a week. I suppose it's not much to complain about. If I had to last the week on this bread that I didn't want at least I'll have a week. A month. A year.

Two teenagers won't after today.

~Maxwell Schreave 17~

Reaping day is the quietest day of the year, maybe the only quiet day of the year to be honest. Or at least the only quiet morning. Normally the whistles blow and the children squeal and shout on their way to school and the world seems normal so long as you don't look out and see how underfed those kids are or how the miners drag their feet on their way to work, exhausted and starving but still pushing to put food on the table for their families. But today all of that noise is gone. Something horrible is going to happen and the district is holding it's breath.

I want nothing more than to be hunting. Anywhere would be better than the stifling misery that is District Twelve on reaping day, but the woods especially…and anyways, if I could hunt maybe I could put a good meal on the table to celebrate another reaping survived. We deserve a treat.

But I can't, not today. In addition to being the most quiet and subdued day of the year, it's also the only day that the peacekeepers care what we're doing. That may actually be part of the reason it's so subdued actually. Today there are Capitolites in the district and if any of them went back to the Capitol with news that the peacekeepers were being too lax on the people of District Twelve...well, they would probably get killed and we'd be stuck with those vicious peacekeepers you hear about in whispers.

So today I get up early, before my mother and sisters, and make breakfast. I don't usually cook-mostly I just kill the food-but if I can't bring home meat than I can put it in a pan over a fire. It can't be too hard.

But, as it turns out, it's pretty hard. The deer sausages that my mother froze several nights ago cooks really weird. The outsides are burned nearly black, but when I bite into one the inside is still pink. The eggs- Which I traded for a whole turkey- burst and so there's a mess of cooked yolk and whites all in the pan and everything seems to stick.

My eldest sister, Iris, comes in as I'm scrapping the burnt remains of an attempt at eggs off the bottom of the pan and bursts into laughter. "What are you doing?" she demands, coming over for a better look.

"I wanted to make breakfast for you guys," I tell her sheepishly. "I didn't think it was going to be so hard, but…" And I gesture to the mess I've made.

Iris laughs even more at that. My mother doesn't find it quite so funny when she comes in a few minutes later to find Iris helping me clean out the pan to start over. "It's perfectly good food that you ruined!" She accuses, swatting my head. Her words are harsh, but there's fondness in her voice. There's always fondness.

By the time Kayla, my second sister, trumps into the kitchen, scrunching her nose at the smell left over from my failed attempt, we have cleaned the physical remains of my breakfast and Iris and my mother have started cooking the remains of the deer meat. "What's burning?" She asks, and my mother makes an irritated sound and looks pointedly in my direction.

I feel my face go red. "I just wanted to be helpful," I proclaim, "I figured you two might want a break this morning."

Kayla bursts into hysterical fits of laughter, gasping between breaths, "You…you tried…This is the best…"

"This is not funny, Kayla!" My mother objects, but even as she tries so hard to be mad I can see a smile tugging at her lips. "He wasted several eggs and deer sausages."

Kayla can't be deterred though. All throughout breakfast she teases about my failure and as we walk to the square for the reaping. By the time we're making the trek most of the other people in the district have begun as well, so the streets are as crowded as it gets in District Twelve, which isn't very crowded at all compared to some of the districts you see on TV for reaping day. The streets still seem so empty. It's distrurbing, and not just the emptiness. There's just something about seeing children but not hearing squeals of joy or dodging to avoid being bulled over, or seeing people but hearing no laughter or conversation, that makes everything seem empty.

My mother and sisters say goodbye at the line to sign in. None of them are of reaping age anymore, so they go to stand among the crowd of adults and small children. I let the peacekeepers prick my finger and head over to stand among my fellow seventeen-year-olds. There is little talk. A few persistently happy teens, but mostly the crowd is quiet and stand around each other, comforting with their presence instead of words. That seems to be more affective than talking anyways. What can you say to make this seem better? "Hey don't worry, there's only a small chance that you'll be reaped for a death match." As if the size of the chance you have matters. I'd prefer no chance at all.

The reading of the Victors is sad. We have had three in ninety eight games. The first was early on, nearly a century ago. He died long before I was even born. The second drunk himself into liver failure when I was a toddler. I don't remember the guy, but everyone still talks about it. The last sits on the stage now, alone, which is somehow even sadder. When the mayor reads her name, Katniss Everdeen stand and gives a short nod to the crowd, then takes her seat again.

Our escort is young and fairly new. The son of District Twelve's last escort who retired several years ago. That's the way it works in Twelve. No one wants us, really, so it just sort of stays in the only Capitol family willing to deal with us.

Finally the bowls are brought onto stage and the boy says into the mic, as gleefully as a person stuck with the most morose and pathetic district in Panem can, "Ladies first." And rushes over to the girls' bowl to select a name. This is the second year in a row that I don't have too hold my breath for this part, praying it's not Kayla. There's something oddly satisfying about that, even if I know it's horrible for me to think.

"Poppy Quick!"

The girl who steps out of the section of fifteen-year-olds is unextrodinary. A seam girl by the looks of it, with mousy brown hair and features, thin but not emaciated like some of the kids out of the poorer part of the district. She walks to the stage with her head down and I wonder if she's hiding tears behind that hair, but when she takes the stage and faces the crowd her eyes are dry. She stares over all of our heads, still as a statue, as the young escort makes his way to the boys' bowl. It happens so quickly, and I'm so focused on feeling sorry for Poppy that I don't even realize he's drawn a slip until I hear a name I recognize.

"Maxwell Schreave."

My mouth is hanging open before I've fully processed my name. Like my body knows the truth before my brain. Somewhere else in the crowd I hear my name echoed, my mother maybe? Yes…that's her and my sisters voices as well, trying to calm her down. I look around, hoping to see them, but there are too many people between us. All I can see are the sympathetic faces all around me. Those lucky people who won't be killed this year. Should I hate them? No…it's not their fault I was reaped and not them.

My feet begin to move without my consent. Part of me wants them to stop, but the bigger part, the part that's really in control, knows there's no use. If I don't go on my own the peacekeepers will drag me and that's not something I want. Who wants to be humiliated and then sent off to die?

As I climb the steps of the stage, I look out over the crowd again, and now I can see them. My mother has fallen to the ground and I can hear her sobs from here. My sisters are bent over her, maybe talking to her in quiet voices now. Maybe they're telling her it's going too be okay. Maybe they're reminding her that I'm more capable than most tributes from Twelve. Because now that I'm thinking about it, I am. I'm older, not as underfed as some and I have knowledge in hunting. In fact, isn't hunting knowledge how Katniss Everdeen won almost a quarter of a century ago?

I look back at my new mentor and she looks at me. her eyes are so intense, sharp and knowing. If she could do it, why couldn't I…

And if I don't? Who will bring food too my mother and sisters? Neither of the girls can hunt…my brother and I never taught them. We thought they were too fragile for killing, we wanted to keep them innocent and safe from the consequences of hunting. Now that seems stupid. We should have made them come learn. The more people who can take care of us the better, right?

And Nate, my brother. I haven't seen him in years. Not since he got married to some rich girl and ran off to live among the merchants. Is he out in that crowd somewhere? Is he wishing he hadn't shut us out? Regretting abandoning his family?

I'm jolted from my thoughts by the feel of something on my arm. When I look, it's Poppy, standing with her hand out…right, we have to shake hands. It's traditional. I wonder why that tradition started? To show unity among district partners? As though Poppy doesn't have to die for me to come back and take care of my mom…my sisters…

But I can't think like that. I'm better than reverting to my animal senses at the very start. And anyways, Poppy might be helpful…maybe if we work together, or if I find some other person to work with…maybe between that and my hunting skills I can survive this…maybe.

~Poppy Quick 15~

There's no way I can survive this. I know that and my mother does too. That's why it's so quiet when she comes to visit me. Why we just sit there together, her arm wrapped around me, not saying anything. Because what can you say? 'Sorry this happened to you. I'm going to miss you'? She certainly can't pretend I have a chance of coming back. We don't lie to each other like that. We don't lie to ourselves like that.

I feel worse for her, I think, than I do for me. She's lost her parents, her husband, and now her daughter. She has nothing anymore. She'll go home to an empty house and cook dinner for one. When the the bells ring fro the miners' to head to work she'll feel nothing and when the streets fill with the sounds of children being let out of school she'll feel nothing. At least I'll be dead. Sometimes being left behind is the crueler fate.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly as the door opens and the peacekeepers come to take her away.

She squeezes my arm hard and looks at me with eyes glossy with tears. "What can you possibly be sorry for."

"That this happened… that everything happened. I'm sorry that I'm the one that gets to die."

The tears roll down her cheeks, catching in the wrinkles…so many wrinkles. Too many for someone so young. The tears spread through them, a wet map of all of the nothingness. "I'm sorry about that too."

 _"Nothing isn't better or worse than anything. Nothing is just nothing."_

 **Yay! A quarter of the way through these reapings!**

 **~IceandFire~**


	7. Deserve: District 9 Reaping

**Hi!**

 **So, I'm going to keep this shorter than normal, because it's kind of late here, but thank everyone so much for your continued support! We're almost halfway through these reapings! So yay!**

 **I don't own quite a bit including the Hunger Games and these beautiful characters from Theali.**

~District 9 Reaping~

~Tarrin Davey 14~

I wake to the sounds of kids outside my window. Yawning, I crawl our of bed and head over, throwing open the shutters to investigate. We live close enough to the fields that I can see the great expanse of gold, shining in the morning sun. _Let District Four have their ocean,_ I think, _smiling as I look at it, we have one of our own and it's even more beautiful._ A breeze ripples the waves of gold as though proving my statement, and ruffles my bed-mussed hair, making me laugh aloud. One of my classmates sees me as she runs by, off to where the other kids are disappearing into the grains. "Come on, Tarrin!" She calls, "We're going to play The Monster in the field!

I want to hop out of the window right then and join them. It would be a great change to spend a Reaping morning not trying to convince my mom everything is going to be okay. And besides, a morning of the grain around me and the soil beneath my feet sounds inviting. But I shake my head. "Sorry, Halley. My mom likes my family to spend reaping morning together. You know…just in case…"

Halley nods, but also shrugs and says, "My parents are the opposite. They practically kick me out every morning. 'Moping about it won't change anything. Go enjoy yourself for a few hours!'. I think that's a better way of handling it."

I don't disagree with her. Maybe a few years ago I could have done that if I had thought about it, but now, ever since my cousin's reaping, it's like my mother is convinced that letting me out of her sight will guarantee my being reaped. I'm trying to decide how to explain the situation to Halley without sounding like I'm just looking for sympathy, but she saves me from that. "I get it though," she tells me, "Everyone deals with things differently." And with that, she waves at me, says she'll see me later, then disappears into the gold with the others.

The encounter makes me smile as much as it makes me sad. It's nice that some people still get to be kids today even if I'm not one of them. I get dressed in the only decent cloths I have for the reapings. The dark trousers are actually okay; new since I grew out of my old ones so they fit well and her free of frayed edges or holes. The shirt is less so. It's just a plain polo. It's free of holes, but it's so faded I can't remember if it was always an iffy shade of grey or if if used to be white.

Once I've dressed I head out into the kitchen. My mom makes a found sound when she sees me and leaves her place at the table eating bread(the one food we don't lack here) for breakfast. She makes her way to me and hugs me tightly. I hug back, and then pull back smiling. The Capitolite escort and the mayor say "Happy Reaping" every year, and Ive heard that echoed, usually mockingly, among my peers, but I can't say that to my mother. She would cry. She probably will cry either way, but best not to give her a reason.

She fusses with my shirt and my hair, then leads me to the table to sit. We talk about school and about work. When my father comes in we talk about the same things all over again. We almost make it though the morning without incident, until I go out with my mother to get some more bathwater for tonight from the well. Some younger kids, too young to understand what their really saying, are arguing and above the other voices one rises with a terrible phrase. "I hope you get reaped!"

And then the water worlds begin. It's horrible, and not just because of how much I hate to see her(or anyone) cry, but because this isn't just silent tears. It's gut-wrenching sobs. Her face is scrunched and red and the tears fall steadily, rolling down her cheeks. The sudden outburst startles the children, who all turn to stare at us with huge, innocent eyes. I glare at them, but can't keep the expression for long. The oldest of them can't be older than nine. They didn't know. Still…"Go wish death on each other somewhere else."

They scramble away in different directions, and I pick up the half filled bucket with on hand and wrap my other arm around my mother. Her face is buried in her hands now so I can't see it, but I can see her shoulders convulsing. I lead her back into the house, dump the water in the great bin which is now mostly empty and lead her to the table to sit.

My father comes into the room as I'm fetching her a glass of water. He looks unsurprised, but says in a worried voice anyways, "What happened?"

I hand my mom the water, and she thanks me in a watery voice and drinks deeply. "Some stupid kids," I tell my father. "Making some thoughtless jokes." I want to make a bad, sarcastic comment as well, but I don't think dry humor is appropriate to help my mother, so I keep the though to myself.

My dad sits down in the chair next to my mom and puts an arm around her, rubs her arm reassuringly. He makes the quiet shushing sound that people make when someone is upset, like telling them to stop crying is going to make them stop or feel better. "It's okay," he whispers to her. "We're okay. Tarrin is going to be okay."

"Yeah," I put in cheerfully, "My name's barely even in the reaping bowl." There are twelve-year-olds with three times as many slips as me…or more.

"Trey only had his name in once!" My mom reminds us between sobs. She's right. Twelve years old with no tesserae, Trey and I were sure we were safe. Then the escort pulled out his name and everything changed. Trey died, my aunt and uncle don't speak to us anymore(and why would they? Trey and I had the exact same chance of being drawn and yet it had been him.), and my mom cries every reaping day, and every day the week leading up the reaping.

I don't know what to say anymore, so I hug her instead, and she squeezes me so hard I can barely breath, but I don't stop her.

I just hope I'll survive another year for her.

~Avena Larson 14~

My younger sisters and I sit in the shade of the grain stalks, enjoying a breakfast of wheat bread and goat's milk. Well, Ceres and I are enjoying our breakfast. Mazie picks at hers and doesn't say much. Today will be her first reaping and she's worried just like any sane kid should be, but I don't want her thinking so much about it. I'm trying to think of ways to cheer her up and distract her when I hear Halley calling to someone. The other kids are gathering together for the district-wide favorite: Monster-in-the-Field. I know Mazie personally loves the game, especially getting picked to be the monster, and that innocent joy it brings her makes me smile. I listen a little longer, to Tarrin's rejection and their brief discussion about the differences in their parents handling of reaping day. Halley's parents are on the right track. Forgetting for a few hours that today is the day two children will be chosen to die, that's exactly what I want Mazie to do. So I suggest joining them.

Mazie chews her bread thoughtfully, shrugs. "I guess."

"We don't have to if you don't want to," I assure her. "We could do something else. What do you want to do?" Mazie shrugs. "Come on. We have a few hours before the reaping. We could do anything you want." Almost anything.

Mazie shrugs again. "Maybe I just want to sit here," she replies quietly, taking another bite of bread. The solemnity in her voice makes my heart sink, but also strengthens my resolve. She won't spend the whole morning sulking like Tarrin and his mother.

"No," I say firmly, and climb to my feet. Ceres jumps up to, brushing dirt off of her old jeans and grinning broadly. "We're going to do something, now get up."

"I thought you said we could do what I want," Mazie objects as Ceres drags her to her feet. When they stand right next to each other it's striking how much they look alike. Small and thin, their hair and skin both brown. Ceres's hair has been pulled back into twin braids, but Mazie's hangs down past her shoulders, just like mine. I look just as much like them but somehow it's more striking to see the similarities on people side by side.

"Not if what you want to do is mope around," I reply flatly. "Come on. We'll play," And I gesture back into the grain where the others disappeared before. Ceres cheers and disappears first. I stand there, facing Maize, for a while. My sister doesn't move and neither do I.

"I don't want to play some silly game," Maize asserts when the silence has finally stretched to long. "I might get reaped. I might get chosen to go to the Hunger Games."

"All the more reason for you to have a little fun beforehand," I insist firmly. She stares at me for even longer this time. "Come on." I sigh and move forward, put my hands on her shoulders and kiss her forehead. "I won't say you won't be reaped okay," I duck my head to meet the gaze she has turned to the ground, "but I will tell you that moping about it all morning won't change it. Do you want your last few hours home to be sitting sullenly in the dirt eating stale bread? Or laughing and playing with other kids?"

She shrugged her shoulders, staring at the last bite of bread in her hands. "I don't know."

I don't accept that answer. I take her by the arm and drag her into the field. It's the right thing to do, which I know for certain later when the game is over and everyone heads their separate ways to prepare for the reaping. The fear of the day has briefly left Mazie's eyes and been replaced by a bright sparkle and a wide smile. She talks the whole way home about the highlights of the game and wonders whether they'll play again after the ceremonies. They won't, I know, or at least none of the kids of reaping age, which made up most of the kids who organized the game in the first place, because after the ceremony two kids will be headed too the Capitol and the rest will be celebrating another year with their family. I don't tell her that though. I just smile and let her talk.

At home we change into our reaping cloths. They're just simple dresses, solid colors with no designs or jewels or buttons or any of the pretty things some of the rich girls get to wear. Mine is grey, which seems depressing somehow, but I don't complain. It's something to wear. Some kids just wear ripped pants or dirty work shirts because they have nothing else. I'm lucky, or at least that's what I tell myself when I feel jealous of the girls in pretty dresses.

The square is already packed by the time we get there and Mazie's anxiety returns as she looks around. "A twelve-year-old got drawn just two years ago," she whispers urgently to me as we stand in line, as though I don't remember. Trey Davey was in my class. We played soccer together in the wide open land that emerged when the crop died for winter. He used to stand beside me in music class and that's where I found out he couldn't sing, but he tried. And the day after his death in the games I burst into tears right in the middle of that music class, missing the horrible, off-key distraction of his voice.

"Trey was the exception," I assure her, pushing a lose strand of hair behind her ear, "not the rule."

She doesn't seem wholly convinced, but we sign in and are forced to go our separate ways so there's nothing more I can do for her. I head to the section of fourteen-year-olds. I can see Tarrin Davey standing not too far from me. He looks a lot like his cousin; pale skin, brown hair, average in most ways, except for his eyes. They're hazel and beautiful, or at least Trey's had been. Tarrin's are deeper, more painful, more life-afflicted.

He catches me looking and smiles. I try not to blush, but am saved from him seeing by the mayor, who begins her speech and the other formalities. You get to where you hardly notice most of the reaping. The speeches, the introductions, the educational video, they're all the same. Even the Victor list is the same, we haven't had a victor in eleven years, almost as long as I've been alive. Certainly longer than I can remember.

It's a relief when the bowls are finally brought out. Kind of crazy to think, I know, but the bowls are the the important part. This is the part where you find out if you're going to survive another year or not. The anticipation of this moment is the worst part of the reaping.

 _Unless you get drawn_ , Some bitter part of me thinks, but I shove that down and away. I think it's gone as the escort starts walking towards the first bowl, but then it comes back again with something worse. _Or Mazie._

I am to focused on pushing that thought away. I miss what the escort is doing and the next thing I know she is standing back at her podium, with a slip unfolded and a name on her lips…no not on her lips, echoing through the noon air, ringing angrily in my ears, shifting those people around me as they all turn to stare at me.

And it isn't just a name that is bouncing destructively around the square…it's my name.

I lower my eyes to the ground so I don't have too see all of their eyes. Their pitying stares, their uncomfortable expressions. If I have to look at one person feeling sorry for me or any other emotion I might just burst into tears. I can't do that. I have to be strong. I have to stop shaking. I clench my fist to try and control them but that only makes the shaking harder. My legs tremble too, which I realize as I mount the stares unsteadily, and cross the stage to the escort. She shakes my hand, as though she wants to be friends, but it only makes me more self-conscious of my shaking hands, so I feel less inclined to be friends.

"And now for your boy," she announces once she has positioned me where she likes on stage, facing the crowd. There are so many faces to not look at. I see them when I look down, and straight ahead, but worse is when I look up and see the screens that show my face. I'm pale, paler than I ever dreamed I could be, and my face is twisted with fear just the way I was trying to avoid. I hate that face. I stare at my feet instead.

I hear the clack, clack, clack of her shoes all the way to the reapung bowl and back. Hear her shuffling papers around in the bowl and the crinkle and rip of the second slip, the second name that will bounce through the crowd and ruin another person's life. I hear her breath as she leans forward and then comes the name.

"Tarrin Davey!

A beat of silence passes, then a wail pierces the air from the crowd of ineligible people. Tarrin's mother maybe. His words to Halley this morning ring in my ear, "you know…just in case" I wonder if Halley feels stupid. I wonder if she remembers telling him that hanging around his family all day and moping was a bad idea. Will she go home tonight and tell her mother what she had almost done? Will her mother force her to stay home every reaping day from now one, like some sort of cosmic repayment?

I wonder if tomorrow she will look at his desk in class or my desk or both and feel our lose. Miss our bodies the way I missed Trey's voice. Or will anyone care?

Tarrin makes his way to the stage quickly and with little incident despite the fact that his mother's sobs are filling the silent square, raw and broken. The sound makes me want to sob too, like someone has reached a hand behind my eyes and his twisting, tighter and tighter, forcing out the tears that I have been forcing down. Does my mother want to sob too? Will she be able to stop herself now that anther mother is doing it. Will they sob together over the mutual loss of their children, never seeing or speaking to each other but holding that unbreakable bond none-the-less. Or will she save her tears for later, behind closed shutters with Maizie and Ceres pressed tightly to her on either side.

"Well, there you are, District Nine!" the escort announces after volunteers have been asked for with no result. And why should they? I wouldn't if I had the luxury of still being in that crowd. "Your tributes for the Ninety-Ninth Annual Hunger Games! Avena Larson and Tarrin Davey!"

When we turn and shake hands it strikes me again how much he looks like his cousin. How unluckily must the Daveys be to loose two kids in three years?

He must have read what I was thinking in my eyes, because he smiled wanly and whispered, "Guess the odds aren't in my family's favor."

And despite how much I really wanted to cry, I smiled back.

 _"Everybody dies soooner or later. Don't worry about your death, worry about your life. Take charge of your life for as long as it lasts."_


	8. Deserve: District 11 Reaping

**Whoo! So yay! I believe this marks the halfway point for these reapings! I'm not gonna lie I'm pretty excited about getting these characters together and starting some interactions! I think this group is gonna play off each other really well!**

 **That being said, I'm also gonna kind of give a map for how this will proceed. So between the reapings and the bloodbath every character will get two perspectives. The first will be spread out over Train rides and three days of training. The second spread and training score reveals, interviews, night before, and morning of chapters. Chariot rides will take place from an outside character's perspective.**

 **Somthere youngo in case anyone was wondering! Thank everyone so much for your support and let's get this Reaping going!**

 **Credit for these characters go to Incompetentlyincineratingyou74 and Snowstar207. I also don't own Hunger Games.**

 **Enjoy!**

~District 11 Reaping~

~Harry Harrison 15~

"Know what I've been thinking?" I ask as I sit in the shade of one of the squat boxy buildings in town square, watching the Capitolites and peacekeepers set up the reaping and taking a break from the hard work of causing trouble amongst those people. The buildings in the square are the few in the entire district made of brick and the rough, hard material feels strange against my back. My friend, Max, who is sitting cross legged digging the final remains of his lunch from the bottom of his back, shrugs. "Wouldn't it be cool to volunteer for the games?"

"The Hunger Games?" Max chortles, "Where people go to die? Yeah that sounds awesome." Finding nothing more at the bottom, he crumples it into a tight ball and tosses it from hand to hand.

I reach across the space and snatch the bag from the air with my one hand. "I'm serious," I insist.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "You want to volunteer for the Hunger Games?" And now it seems he's torn between amusement and fear. He laughs a little in a way that's as much hysterical as amused. "There are easier ways to commit suicide, Haz."

"I don't plan on dying in the Hunger Games," I scoff, throwing the bag at him as hard as I can. "I plan on winning and becoming rich. No more crappy tesserae food for me."

He snatches it from the air; gives me a flat look that I know means hard truth is coming. "You only have one arm, Harry," he informs me, which almost makes me laugh. Like I, the guy that spends twenty minutes trying to get this damn prosthetic on every morning, don't know about my missing arm.

Instead of laughing, however, I gasp, over-dramatically, and fumble my fingers over the place where the prosthetic fits onto my stump. "I am! When did that happen?"

He stares at me, unimpressed and after a moment more of my mocking shock he asks, "Are you done?" When I stop and shrug-and as I'm about to tell him that only having one arm doesn't make a difference- he flings the crumpled bag back at me. I yelp and cover my face, and it bounces harmlessly off of my real arm. "You can't win the Hunger Games with one arm," he tells me in that flat way of his. "But the bright side will be; no more crappy tesserae food for you."

"I don't like your attitude," I inform him irritably, stumbling to my feet. "I'm going to go find someone who's less serious."

"Harry," he tries, but I ignore him, turning on my heels and walking away. I kick the discarded bag as I go, which rolls away and bumps the shiny black boot of a peacekeeper. The man stares down at the bag, then raises his eyes to glare at me and I yelp and take off at a run before he can decide to pursue.

Once I'm sure I've lost him, I slow to a trot then meander down the narrow dirt roads of District Eleven. Children race past me, giggling and squealing and enjoying the sweet bliss of innocence. Most of them don't even know what happens at a reaping yet, and some have probably had very little, if any, experience with starving. Some of them are lucky enough that they don't know the fear every year that this will be it. This year the tesserae will catch up to you. They have probably never had to sleep under a sad little tin cover as the wind blows the rain right in to soak you, because your parents couldn't pay the Capitol taxes so they kicked us out of our home until we did. They've never felt how horrible it feels to know your family needs extra help with money and having nothing to give. Because only having one arm means I can't climb the trees to pick fruit, or carry heavy laden baskets. I can't supervise because I'm not serious enough and I can't pack shipments because, again, lifting baskets full of fruit is difficult for the one armed and throwing them in by twos and threes is too slow.

I take off the fake arm and stare at it for a long time. Wouldn't it be nice to have some sort of robot arm that could help me lift or climb. Wouldn't it be nice to be more than the extra mouth to feed…but all I have is this stiff piece of plastic. What good does it do me anyways?

I pop the next person I pass close too in the shoulder with the useless limb and their irritated objection makes me laugh. There's this old saying I found in a book once that says, "Laughter is the medicine." I think that's pretty right. When I laugh I forget about the problems. So what if I get reaped? Max is wrong. I could survive the games. I could become rich and never have to sleep under a tin roof or eat the scrapes they throw to the tesserae participators ever again. Maybe if I won they would give me a robot arm adn I could climb again or lift baskets of fruit. And how amusing would a one armed victor be?

Maybe not today, but someday, in a couple years, when I'm older, I'm going to prove Max wrong.

~Lily Harrison 12~

The sun shines today, bright and beautiful, and lights up my parents' garden with an endless array of colors. It warms my skin while the cool soil beneath my feet saves me from being too hot. Linnet and laugh as we burry our toes, enjoying the feel of the soft earth all around them, between them. We tell each other stories and giggle and Linnet makes little headdresses out of flowers even though I tell her she shouldn't because my mom works hard to grow these flowers. But when I say that she only scrunches up her nose. "What's the point of a flower if you ain't gonna pick it and make something pretty with it? Otherwise it's just gonna sit here out of sight until it shrivels up all ugly."

"It will shrivel up ugly picked too," I tell her, giggling more.

"Sure, but at least this way more people get to see them than just us." She places the band of sunflowers and lillies and beautiful forget-me-nots on my brow and nods approvingly. "There you go," she tells me, smiling proudly at her work. "Now you look as rich as any merchant girl."

I doubt that. No flower band can make me not scrawny and underfed. No flower band makes my hands soft like the rich girls or my knees unscarred from all the times I slipped climbing a tree and scraped my knee. No flower band will take away that haggard look that all us poor kids got wondering where our next meal is coming from.

But despite knowing this I smile and later, when it comes time to get ready for the reaping, I don't take it off. Not even when my brother teases me. I only smile more and let myself feel pretty and rich. I forget about my cramping stomach and the fact that I might be chosen to die today, the first of six years that I will be eligible.

As we walk the square for the reapings, my brother interrupts what my sister is saying about her and her twin's plans for celebrating later with their friends with a sharp yelp, followed by an indignant, "Hey!" And I turn in time too see a familiar boy racing down the street. Harry, with his light skin and one arm, sticks out in a crowd here. He's carrying his prosthetic in one had and my bet is that he popped William a good one with it. That's his favorite game on Reaping Day and I'll admit that it's rather amusing that he got William, especially after my brother teased me for my flower band earlier.

"He's such a weirdo," William mutters irritably, rubbing the afflicted area. I disagree even if I don't say it. I think Harry has the right idea. Instead of being down because he's as poor as the rest of us and has only one arm to boot, Harry laughs as easily as anyone else, and finds ways to laugh about what makes him different. It's the same life I try to live. Because we can't change what is, but we can make it hurt us less if we really want to.

I touch the flowers across my forehead and smile, glad that I didn't let William convince me to take it off with his jokes. It feels like Harry must feel when he hits people with his arm. Like I defied the rules.

When we reach the square I follow the twins to sign in. I've never done it before and when I see the needles to prick my finger I feel knots start tying up in my tummy, but no one in front of me seems too bothered when they poke them so I take a deep breath and stick my hand out without hesitation when I reach the table. It feels funny, but doesn't hurt too much and it's kind of interesting seeing the red bloom up on my finger, like when I blow bubbles with my bath soap.

Once I've signed in I'm directed by another peacekeeper to the place were all of the other kids my age are meant to stand in the back. That feels right, safer somehow. Like the further we are from the bowl the less likely our names will come from it. I push my way into the crowd and find Linnet, who is wearing her own flower band. She smiles when she sees me. "You wore it," she notices.

I nod and proceed too tell her about my brother's teasing, and we fall into giggles thinking of ways to get revenge later. Then there's a great, electronic schreech and the mayor's voice fills the air, apologizing for what he calls a "mic error" even though it happens ever year. It's District Eleven's cue to be quiet and listen too the ceremonies. I stand quiet and respectfully, mostly out of fear of the Peacekeepers roaming the edges of the crowd of kids, but I don't listen very well. I already know everything he's going to say. He says it all every year, and the escort as well. I think of more ways to get back at William instead.

Then the escort says, "Ladies First!" And my attention is on the reaping again. He waddles his way on stout legs to the reaping bowl and plunges his hand in, plucks out a name and makes his way back. The moments leading up are much more terrifying than I anticipated. As he unfolds the paper, my chest feels tight, almost like I can't breath. Then:

"Lily Harrison!"

It's as though someone grabbed the knots twisting up in my chest and yanked them hard. For a second I can't pull in any air. I stare around my, trying to breath and trying even harder to find someone in the crowd to assure me that I heard wrong. It's just first reaping jitters is all. That wasn't actually my name he called.

But no one corrects me or comes forward instead and so, finally, I managed a deep breath, and make my way shakily to the stage. I'll be strong, I tell myself as I go, not looking at anyone. I'll be tough just like I was when they pricked my finger and no one will have to know that I'm scared. It's none of their business if I'm scared anyways. They're not the ones going to fight for their lives.

The escort wastes little time when I make it too the stage. I'm a bit disappointing, a shaking twelve-year-old, and he wants to hurry and pick a better boy. I want to scream at him to pick another girl if I'm so disappointing. I'd gladly give my place to someone older and stronger, but I don't say that. He can't pick another girl any more than I can refuse to go. We're both cornered.

"Harry Harrison!"

It might be funny if it wasn't so awful. The Twelve-year-old and the cripple. What were the odds, and how irritated does the escort feel now? All of that cheer that had been on his face when the reapings started completely disappears as Harry steps out of the section of fifteen-year-olds, still holding his prosthetic arm in his one hand. He's smiling despite what's just happened and I wonder if that's just that fake happiness he always wears. He can't really be happy to have been reaped, can he?

When he reaches the steps to the stage he takes them two at a time and strides cheerfully right up to the escort and holds out the prosthetic as though expecting the escort to shake it. The Capitolite recoiled in horror and Harry raised his eyebrows at him. "What's wrong? Got a problem with plastic hands? Is this how you treat your honored tribute?"

The escort stares blankly at Harry for so long a moment that the crowd begins to get restless. Then, finally, he moves his hand out slowly and gives a pained smile. He has to keep face, because that's what is really important to Capitolite's: What people think of them.

The scene makes me laugh and when our names are announced again and Harry holds the arm out to me to shake I take it without hesitation, smiling at him and hoping he sees how much I appreciate what he did for me on this stage.

 _"It is a big and beautiful world. Most people live and die I the same corner where we are born and never get to see any of it. I don't want to be most people."_


	9. Deserve: District 8 Reaping

**Whoo! Another reaping down. If I'm not mistaken that means we're over halfway done now? Anyways, we're getting there. I'm kind of concerned that these characters aren't coming off different enough. I don't knw if its the monotony of writing reapings or what, but I'm afraid these chapters are coming off as the same thing over and over. I'm just kind of ready to get done and start with some interactions. I feel like once we reach that point the differences between the characters' personalities and storylines will really start to stand out more(I hope!)**

 **Anyways thank you to everyone still sticking with me! I encourage everyone, especially with submitted tributes, to let me knw if you see potential alliances. I obviously already have some in mind but others I'm still trying to work out so suggestions are totally welcome!**

 **As always, I do not own what did not come from my brain. These two lovely characters were created by Moon Melodies and Baby Rue 11 and I certainly do hope I did them justice!**

~District 8 Reaping~

~Chiffelle Wayne 15~

I have always loved the way light, especially the soft orangish yellow light of morning, creeps into my home. The way the broken and stained glass shifts and morphs it to create beautiful, intricate patterns along the walls, the floors, my skin. I have recreated these designs so many times, I see the shapes in their exactness when I close my eyes. Spots dance in the darkness behind my eyelids and fill in the spaces that the lines create, and I recreate those colorful patterns on my bedroom walls and floor and ceiling, using what dredges of color I can pull from the dye tubes thrown out at the factory. They often leave behind more useable material than I believe they realize, but when you have as much money and resources to spare as the Capitol, I suppose splitting open the tubes and rubbing away every last drop isn't necessary.

Today, as I watch a pot of soup that will be our breakfast boil, I paint the lights in sad colors. Grey and cool blues and a deep, sorrowful purple lacing its way through and weeping out into the other pale colors.

When my sister shuffles into the kitchen, pushing masses of light blond hair from her face, she looks long and hard at the painting, reaches out and hovers a hand over the surface of the fabric cutting board I liberated from the trash yesterday and am using as a canvas today. For a moment I fear she will touch it and smear the still wet paint, but she only lets her fingers drift there above the place near the center, where the purple lines met, gathered like a tangle of thread, then move on. "These are the tributes? The people who are going to die today?"

I consider the lines for a long moment, then shrug my shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe…or maybe they're everyone else. See the way they bleed? Like they're weeping for what's lost?"

Annena smiles, looks at me with huge, shining bright blue eyes that match my own. "You're so smart," she tells me and I blush, ruffle her hair, and make her help me set the table for breakfast. I can make the soup, but moving it is a little more tricky with one toe missing. You never realize how important those little things are until you try to keep your balance holding something as heavy and shifty as liquid in a pot.

When our mother joins us, she examines my work as well, crouching by where I've propped it up away from the dangerous environment of moving soup and water for cleaning utensils and plates and washing hands. When I notice her looking, brow furrowed, a sting of doubt rushes through me and I tell her, "It's unfinished."

She looks at me. Her eyes are paler than mine and my sister's, and much older, more tired. I paint those eyes a lot too. Sometimes I paint them behind the light, staring our into the hope of day with all the knowledge of life. "It will be beautiful," she tells me.

I smile. She returns it, then makes her way over to take a seat at the table. I limp over as well, with bowls for our breakfast. Annena, who can't stand silence, chatters as we eat and I let the familiar sound of her voice wash over me without hearing what she's saying. It's just comfortable to listen, to have something familiar, on a day so abnormal as today. And anyways, I feel as though I have to soak up everything about her today. Her, my mother, my home. The light slanting through the cracked windows. I have to memorize it all, because maybe today will be the last day. Maybe today will be the day that it is my name they draw.

And I need to be prepared. Because that's what you do when you grow up poor. You work and you improvise and you prepare for the worst. Because the worst also happens to be the inevitable.

~Rollag Denim 12~

It's inevitable, really. My reaping, if not this year than one of the other six years I'll be eligible. I know it, and so does my father. If he didn't why would he insist on eating breakfast together today. Or on spending what little money we have on little cupcakes from the bakery. Nothing too fancy, but sweet and rare, which makes it special. If he wasn't also aware of the likelihood of my reaping today why make it any different from the other days. Because when you're as poor as us, you can't afford to splurge to make up for what might happen.

I push brown hair from my face as we walk the streets of our sad little district, the factories looming over us and, great grey teeth that tear and grind us down day after day. Those that aren't killed by machine accidents can expect to come to an end from the heavy smog that fills the working space from running so many machines. Sometimes I think that the nearly constant overcast is actually just the smoke from the factories, gathered up above our heads and blocking out the sun so that all of the inhabitants of our district look pale and sick. It was the smog that destroyed my mother's lungs and took her away from us, and someday it will probably do the same to me, if the Hunger Games doesn't get me first.

We pass an alleyway and a little boy-younger even than me, who was digging in a trash can- bolts back into the shadows. If he was caught by peacekeepers he would probably be beaten. They would call it stealing or trespassing or some other sad little crime. Just last week the girl who works at the station next to me in the factory came to work so raw from a whipping that she could barely move, because she had picked up a dead cat to bring home and they had called that hunting. She had told me sobbing that it hadn't even had much meat on it. It probably wouldn't have fed her alone, much less her family. But one mouthful of meat apiece would have been better than nothing.

"It'll be okay," I had assured her hollowly, the same words my father always uses to try and cheer me up when I'm in a particularly put out mood, "Tesserae rations come in a week then there will be some food and the wounds will be healed and things will be better."

Later that day she collapsed. She hadn't properly healed from her injuries and standing all day had pushed her past the point of exhaustion. She should have stayed home, but people like me and her can't afford to heal. So we push and, sometimes, we push too hard. She fell right into the fabric cutting machine. No more worrying about her next mouthful of food for her.

Some part of me knew I should have been horrified to have witnessed such an awful thing, that's certainly what the rich kids-those kids that have never starved or had to work for their food- thought when they pressed me for all of the gory details the next day. I hadn't felt horrified though. I had just notified a supervisor and moved to a new station while they cleaned up the mess. And I envied her a little bit. How nice would it be to no longer have to worry about my next mouthful of food?

"It's nice to have a paid day off work every once in a while, don't you think kid?" My father tries when the silence grows to powerful for him. He thinks the silence is a sign that my depression is bad today. In his mind, there's a direct link between my speaking and my happiness. This isn't true, of course. My life is just as horrible when I'm talking as it is when I'm quiet, but why should I drag him down with me? So I talk and I pretend it helps.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And no school," he adds when I contribute no more to the conversation. "All for standing in the square for less than an hour. Not a bad exchange, huh?"

I shrug. "I guess not." As long as you don't think about the fact that two kids are going to be sent away to fight to the death. As long as you don't think about the fact that I have two slips in that bowl this year. Two chances to be chosen. And with my luck that's two too many chances to tempt fate with.

"I was thinking after the ceremony we could head down to Knit Square and see if we can't get some roast for a cheap price." Knit Square used to be where women would weave and knit until their fingers bled before the Capital developed machines to do that for them and opened the new factories in the Northern edge of the district. Now Knit Square is filled with abandoned buildings in which merchants set up illegal stalls in a new place every night and sell sketchy items for low prices. It's risky and you have to bring something to sell to someone in the market. That's how they keep business growing and it's the tricky part, finding something worth trading. Most of the time traded items are stolen goods to be sold to other districts so that they can't be traced back to anyone. My father thinks I don't know how it works and I don't press it because he does it very rarely. But it still worries me when he does and that only makes the overwhelming sense of helplessness worse.

"Yeah, I guess that would be okay."

We reach the square, where the stage is being erected for the reaping, and my father leads me into the bakery. I've never even been inside this building and despite how much I know we shouldn't waste money here, I still wander the store, taking in everything in fascination as my father approaches the counter and orders two plain but fluffy little cakes. It's quite possibly the most incredible thing I've ever eaten, but after only a few small bites my stomach rolls uncomfortably. The richness is too much I suppose.

We sit together on the curb outside the bakery, nibbling at our cakes, my father filling the silence with stories and reassurances and all the things people use to fill silence. It's a bit of a relief when the square begins filling with people and my father stands and offers a hand to help me up. "Better go sign in," he tells me and when I take his hand and he pulls me too my feet I find myself in a tight hug. "Good luck," he says quietly into my hair. Again I remember my thought from before.

He knows as well as I do what will probably happen today.

I sign in and duck into the gathering crowd of my peers. Most of the kids around me are as emaciated as I am. Most share my bone and skin body and sunken, grim eyes. We almost all have pale skin, even those with naturally dark skin you can tell they're not as brown as they should be. Our district gets too little sun for that. Most of them share my ragged cloths and many probably have more slips in the bowl than I do. Those with large families probably have more than the rich eighteen-year-olds in the crowd.

Telling myself that the odds are in my favor helps. Reminding myself that my name isn't in there that much, that today some starving eighteen-year-old will die and not me, it soothes my nerves. I even start to believe it, almost. I need it to be true. I need something go right. To turn my life around.

I don't listen to the mayor or to the escort. I repeat the mantra in my head and watch there mouths move, intently waiting for the moment of truth. Then, finally, the bowls are brought out and the escort selects the first name.

"Chiffelle Wayne!"

There's no sound for a long moment. No one moves. People begin to look around, searching for something that will give away the chosen girl. In front of me, in the section of thirteen-year-olds, a girl bursts into tears. I think for a moment it must have been her, and the peacekeepers seem to think so as well for they begin moving towards her, but then there's a stirring in the section of fifteen-year-olds and and girl stumbles forward. She and the crying girl share long waves of blond hair and great blue eyes. They must be sisters.

The older girl makes her way to the stage, slowly and awkwardly. I thought at first the shock had made her legs weak, or maybe they were just shaking badly, but when she mounts the stage and walks to the escort I can tell it's more than that. She probably is having trouble standing from the shock, but I've seen enough people limping about to know when someone has something actually wrong with them and when it's just fear or exhaustion.

When she has taken her place the escort moves on quickly to the boys' bowl and the moment of truth is finally here. I hold my breath and the mantra plays in my head. The odds are in my favor. He'll pick someone with more slips. He has to pick someone with more slips. My family needs something good…

"Rollag Denim!"

And as easy as that, a thousand times faster than the hope came everything is as I knew it would be. I collapse, my legs unfit to carry all of this weight the world continues to toss onto my back. It's crushing me, suffocating me, and the breath rushes out of me in great, shrieking sobs. I kneel there amongst my peers, screaming and crying, until the peacekeepers come. Or at least I think it's peacekeepers. I can't see anything through the tears drowning my vision, but they seem like peacekeepers, the way they grab me up roughly and drag me to the stage.

When they plop me down beside Chiffelle I manage to stay on my feet. I stand there gasping desperately for air that just rushes back out as soon as I take it in. I wonder if this is how my mother felt in those last months when her breath was shallow, her lungs too damaged to take in much air at all.

I hear the escort speaking vaguely, see his blurry face staring expectantly at me, but I don't know what he wants. Can't he just leave me alone? He's already chosen me to die. Isn't that enough?

Then arms wrap around me and for one panicked moment I think the peacekeepers are back. Here to drag me away. I scream and try to jerk away. They won't drag me around like a doll this time…but it's only Chiffelle and she's not trying to drag me away. She's hugging me.

I collapse again in her arms, a new wave of tears that I didn't know were possible washing over me. I turn my face into her tattered, checkered dress and sob into the fabric, which smells strong. Like dye used in the factories for cloths. It makes my stomach roll, but I ignore that. I just sob, unabashedly, into her shoulder.

" _Deserve? Be careful with that. You start trying to work out who deserves what and before long you spend the rest of your days weeping for each and every person in the world."_


	10. Deserve: District 10 Reaping

**Hi all!**

 **Okay so I now it's been a while and I'm really sorry, you know how it is with the holidays and the finals and December is just a mess!**

 **Anyways, a big thanks to everyone and your support! I love all the reviews I'm getting informing me that I've written people's characters well. I try to capture them as close as I can and it's a real pleasure when my work pays off.**

 **So, here's District 10! I really hope it's okay as I feel I bad chapter after such a long wait would kind of suck!**

 **All credit to SC for her wonderful dystopia and to theali and thesneezyunicorn for your great characters. I hope I did the, justice!**

 **enjoy!**

~District 10 Reaping~

~Sable Pelletier 15~

I've heard that in most districts, people take reaping day off. The factories and fields close down and everyone shops and laughs and celebrates to their hearts' desires. I think I would go a little crazy if I lived in one of those places. The idea of having nothing to do the morning of the reaping, of having several hours to think of nothing but the fact that I might be reaped, would only drive me insane every year. Here in District 10, where most of the production comes from privately owned businesses, the people-not the Capitol- get to decide when you take a day off, and when you work with animals you don't take a day off. The cattle can't go a day without food and fresh water, or being milked, and my family can't go a day without income. It's easy to get behind when you teeter so close to the edge of financial crises.

So I wake before the sun, the sky still a dark silky canvas, and scarf down toast and egg without saying a word to my father and brother. There's this unspoken rule that we don't talk to each other until the sun is up. We're not morning people even if we do start our days so early.

Once breakfast is gone, I head out. The sky has begun to lighten, that grey area before dawn, when the fog rolls over the hills and the dew is a great white blanket over the grass. My boots shine with the moisture and grass sticks to the soles, then straw and dirt later when I step into the barn. The cows moo sleepily at me as I make my way down the center row.

I do my work fast, collecting my milk and taking a moment to rub each cows' nose so she does't feel left out. By the time I'm done, Butch has arrived, straw colored hair sticking up at odd angles and sweat glistening on his face. "You get that fence fixed?" I ask him. The cows have been escaping through a half trampled, rotten section in the fence that we discovered yesterday. Today is Butch's day for morning repairs and pasture watch. I'm glad for that. The other thing that may drive me crazy on reaping days is being stuck watching the cows graze and thinking about what could happen today.

"Wouldn't be here if I hadn't," he replies, shrugging.

I smile and clap him on the shoulder. "Well, they're all yours." Then I pick up the last of my haul and carry it to our little cart. I'll take the cart down the road to the Breinly house where they pasteurize it and send it off, part to the Capitol to redistribute as they please, part to come back home with me for use as my family sees fit. Mostly we just sell it off in the market.

Our horse, Gretel, nickers when I load up the last buckets. I make my way up to her, pat her nose, and offer her a handful of oats which she eats greedily. I laugh as she does, her lips tickling my palm. When she's finished, I climb up onto the cart and urge her forward, down the winding road filled with its pot holes and great dips that will topple the cart if I don't move around them.

The rhythm of the drive is comforting, just like everything else. All of the routines that settle my chest and help me forget. Even when I arrive at the Breinlys and the oldest boy, my brother's age and pretty in a bedraggled sort of way, smiles at me and offers, "Happy Reaping Day," as a way of greeting.

"Maybe for you," I reply, hopping down from my cart and moving around to begin unloading. "Being your last and all."

"It does feel pretty great," Toby admits, taking a couple buckets from me. "I'm going to celebrate by pasteurizing milk all night." His grin is infectious. Almost as affective a distraction as my routine. We haul the buckets into the pasteurizing building, and then Toby takes the time to walk me back to my cart. "Good luck today, kid," he tells me, reaching out a hand to shake. His hands are calloused. Rough and hard. Like my father's, like Butch's...like mine.

When I make it back my father meets me outside the barn, his overalls stained from mucking the stables. "She needs a wash," he observes, watching me climb down and begin unhooking Gretel from the cart.

"I'll do it," I offer. "I'll bet I can even finish in time to get ready for the reaping."

"Might be you could," he agrees, pulling off his gloves and patting Gretel's side. "But I'll help you anyhow. Better safe than sorry."

I offer a small smile in return. He would never admit it, he's never been good with expressing how he really feels, but I'm not fool enough to miss the signs. We wash Gretel at regularly scheduled intervals of time and usually it's just a one person job. What he really wants is to spend some time together before the reaping. I'll bet he helped Butch fix the fence, which would explain why my brother got done so fast.

And even though I like my routine, I don't object because I want the time as much as he does. This could be our last morning together after all, even if neither of us wants to think about that.

~Crispin Rolf 14~

"It must be hard being a vegetarian in a District where we specialize in selling animals for slaughter," I tease. My best friend, James, and I are perched on newly repaired wooden fence that encloses the cow pasture of the Pelletiers. James is looking sadly at the grazing cows, as though he wants to rescue them. The cows are unconcerned with their fates, though. They just wander about in the cool morning air and chew the dewy grass, occasionally mooing suspiciously in our direction.

Sometimes it strikes me how much we're like the cows, just wandering about our business, waiting for the day that it's us who gets chosen for slaughter, and hoping that we'll slide under the slaughterer's gaze. We just hope maybe if we eat our grass and give our milk we won't find ourselves in the slaughterhouse.

"If I had a dime for every time someone made that joke," James told him unimpressed, "I wouldn't have my name in that reaping bowl so many damned times."

"Wouldn't that be convenient," I reply, smiling. This year his name is in the bowl Twenty-one times. That's nearly twice my own twelve despite the fact that we're the same age. It's nearly four times what some rich kid with no tesserae will ever have in the bowl.

"Mostly I don't think about it," James tells me suddenly and I look at him, surprised.

"About how many times your name is in the bowl?" I ask, my mind still stuck on my own thoughts.

He laughs. "Well, yeah, that too. But I was actually referring to the animals. The fact that we traffic in animal slaughter here?" I'd forgotten that we had been discussing that but I nod to acknowledge that I'm with him now. He stares hard at the cows as he talks. "It's not hard. That's what we all do, we just don't think about the messed up things. If I don't think about them killing the animals, then it's not happening." _If I don't think about the fact that my odds of being reaped are very high, it won't happen_ , is what he doesn't say. "We have no choice but to ignore it. If we thought about all the fucked up stuff, we'd go crazy."

"You shouldn't curse like that," I tell him vaguely, but I consider what he says long and hard. It reminds me a lot of my baby brother. Eight years old and more sure of himself than me. Every reaping before we separate at the square he hugs me and whispers, "The nightmares never come true."

And just like today, sitting here with James, I don't say what I really think. Because every year the nightmare does come true, for two people and their families and friends at least. And the animals still get slaughtered.

"Hey! Y'all better get down off that fence. Spent a good part of the morning fixin' that spot right there!"

The voice comes from our right, where the one of the Pelletier kids is making his way along the perimeter. The sudden disturbance in the quiet air makes a few of the cows lift there heads and moo indignantly, but mostly the cattle is disinterested. It does make us hop down obligingly however. When Butch comes on us we have to tilt our heads back. He's eighteen and huge; tall and broad shouldered, with a square jaw and hard little eyes that stare at us suspiciously.

"One of these days when a cow goes missin', you two gon' be the first I look for," he tells us flatly. Part of me wishes it was his sister on duty today. Sable is as broad and tall and intimidating, but she's friendlier. Butch is mostly just suspicious and will run you off where Sable might have a conversation with you, so long as you walk the perimeter with her. She does things a certain way and you have to go with it, but she knows her business and I could easily get a job as a cow hand somewhere thanks to taking the time to help her out every once in a while.

That's one thing I like about not living in a landowning family here in District 10. I can wander about and learn whatever I want and talk to whoever I want. I could live my whole life as a hired hand, helping those I see who need it for a little money, and I would be pretty happy, I think.

"We were only sitting and talking," I assure him, giving him my friendliest smile. "No need to worry my diligent fellow." Butch glares suspiciously at me, as though wondering if I'm mocking him. I'm not of course, the Pelletiers are well known throughout the district as a perseverant and diligent family. "Need any help around here? Or company?"

Butch only eyes us a moment longer, then says, "Don't think so. Y'all should be headed on home, I think. Reaping will start in a few hours, and we all should look presentable."

He's not wrong. The sun finally risen over the trees and by the time we trek back home, get ready for the reaping, and walk the long walk back too the district square the signing in would be well under way. So James and I hop back over the fence and start the walk home, waving goodbye to him despite his ignoring us.

When I make it home I am greeted immediately by my brother, who barrels around the corner, his work boots and overalls covered in mud and tackles me with a hug. I laugh and lift him off the ground. "What have you been doing all morning?" I ask, examining the mess covering him.

"Frog huntin'," Mickey tells me over our scrawny old dog Hank, who barks excitedly and runs circles around us. "I caught some nice big ones we could make a whole feast out of!"

I hush him urgently. "Don't talk so loud, okay? Can't let the wrong people hear you." Technically hunting, even for frogs, was illegal. The peacekeepers aren't too hard on the rule, mostly because District 10 is so spread out and hard too manage. Mostly they stay in the market unless someone calls them out to their property. But sometimes they get in a mood, or a zealous new peacekeeper will get to sniffing about. And on reaping day it's even more likely. Capitolites are in town Capitolites always mean trouble for the rest of us.

"I ain't afraid of nobody!" Mickey asserts adamantly, sticking out his chest. I smile despite myself, but warn him again too be quiet and then lead him inside by his hand, once he collects his bucket of frogs.

"We should invite you're friends over to have some too, after the reaping!" Mickey suggests excitedly as we go. "James and his brothers and sisters! And Betty," he says the last name slyly. My second friend, smart and beautiful, who's been around as long as I can remember. It's Mickey's endless pleasure to try and bring us together. My very own little snaggle-toothed wing-man.

"We'll see. There's an entire reaping between then and now," I tell him, ruffling his muddy mop of dirty blond hair. A whole reaping between now and enjoying a celebration dinner with my family and friends. Just a couple hours of anticipation and one hour standing in the square waiting. Still, somehow it seems like a lifetime.

I dress in khakis and an old colored shirt, blue because Betty says it brings out my eyes. Not that I care too much what she thinks, but I do like it when she smiles and compliments me on my good taste.

I flatten my hair in the stained mirror that hangs over our little sink, check my cloths, then meet my parents and Mickey on the doorstep to begin the long walk to the square. We'll meet James and Betty at there as always despite the fact that Mickey asks every year when they will join us, as though the answer ever changes. Today is no exception.

We walk for several miles before we see another family, but eventually we are walking in a great group, Mickey and the other young children chasing each other in circles around us as we walk, laughing and shouting. Mickey falls into a mud puddle, much to my mother's dismay, but jumps right up and flings the mud on his hands in my direction. The people around me scatter, but I laugh, stepping back to avoid the drops. My mother scowls and warns him to stop, so Mickey goes back to his game with the other kids.

When we reach the square I pause beside one of the low market buildings to say goodbye. My mother stoops and begins rubbing fiercely at the now mostly dried mud on Mickey's face, scolding in in a low hissing voice, but Mickey barely hears her. He is searching the crowd for Betty, eager to play match maker.

I spot her and James first, standing at edge of the crowd waiting for me to join them. I kneel and tell Mickey, "Time for me to go."

"So soon?" He pouts.

I laugh, reaching out to pick a glob of dried mud from his hair, and tell him. "It will be okay. I'll be back before you realize I'm gone."

He throws his arm around me in a fierce hug, smearing half-dried mud on my shirt and making my mother utter an exasperated sound. Then, as is tradition, he whispers into my ear, "The nightmares never come true."

When we pull apart I give him a reassuring smile, kiss his forehead, say goodbye to our parents, then stand and head to the place where Betty and James are standing, waiting. We sign in, Betty fussing over the mud on my shirt, and find our spots in the crowd of fourteen-year-olds.

The reaping starts shortly after. The mayor is giddy when he reads off the names of the victors, announcing the newest name more enthusiastically than the others. The crowd erupts, brimming with his excitement. Ezra stands and waves shyly at the urging of the mayor and her fellow Victor, Joseph. Then she sits back down again and the crowd quiets for the continuation of the reaping.

The ceremonies go by fast. The mayor and escort are both still reeling from last year's win so their speeches are fast and short. Then the reaping bows are brought out and before I have time to think about Betty's safety the little Capitol man has damned one of our girls.

"Sable Pelletier!"

She stepped from the crowd in front of me. All the time I've known Sable, I've always found her a little intimidating somewhere in the back of my mind. Tall and broad and square of jaw and face in a way that makes her look angry at first glance. But she doesn't look intimidating or angry now, only shocked. Her mouth is open slightly and she's staring at every face as she passes them, as though seeing it all for the fist time. The crowd, the stage, the cameras that broadcast her emotions to the entire world.

The escort seems pleased despite her shock and pale face. I suppose a strong, surprised girl is better than a crying twelve-year-old. He selects his second name, says into the microphone, "And joining our young Miss Pelletier…" the paper crinkled and it seems as though he takes so much longer this time. Betty is squeezing my hand hard and I try to focus on the discomfort, but all I can focus on is his fingers breaking the seal, the crackling of the paper as his fat little fingers unfold the slip.

"James Maloney!"

No! Not James. Never James. Not James who lives in District 10 but can't stand the thought of killing or eating animals. Not James who takes out tesserae for all of his family and started working extra jobs all over the district to make up for the extra food they would get if he had allowed little Lottie to take out tesserae when she turned twelve this year. James would never win. He would faint at the first sight of blood…or jump in to save some little girl that smiles like his sisters. He would die and then Lottie would have to take out all of his tesserae and someday she would go the same way. I can't let that happen. His family needs him.

I don't realize he's made it to the stage until the escort asks for volunteers. Then my attention snaps back into focus, and I have resolved myself to what I must do. I shout, "I volunteer!"

The crowd turns its head as one to stare at me and the cameras find me easily thanks to them. When my face flashes on the screens as I push my way through the crowd I hear a great, heartbroken scream. I know it, I could never not know my little brother's voice.

I'm sorry, Mickey, but sometimes the nightmares do come true.

James meets me as I mount the stairs, pulls me in close for a hug and whispers in my ear. "Are you sure? You can always turn around and go back."

I pull away so that he can see my reassuring smile. "I don't know if they would let me anyways. I volunteered…" We stare at each other for what feels like a long time, although it can't be. Otherwise the peacekeepers would move in to take James back by force. "Take good care of them…and Mickey too. Take care of Mickey for me." James hugged me again, so hard that I can't breath for a moment, then lets me go and disappears back into the crowd again. Somewhere out there I can still hear Mickey's sobs. I approach the escort.

"And what's you're name?" the escort asks, practically bouncing he is so giddy.

"Crispin Rolf."

"Well that's just excellent!" The escort proclaims cheerfully. "Such a brave young man to represent your district." Brave's not the word I would use. Stupid, maybe is more accurate.

"Thank you."

~Sable Pelletier 15~

I don't expect my brother or dad to say much when they come to say goodbye. We've never been a chatty family. Actions mean more than words and in this case my actions are going to mean everything. Words won't kill the other twenty-three tributes, but my strength from years working the farm might. My endurance might. My actions just might bring me home. Thinking of how excited our escort would be to have two victors in a row almost makes me laugh despite the insanity of what is happening. He was thrilled enough to have a volunteer, even if that volunteer was a thin little fourteen-year-old.

At first we sit in the silence I expected, just piled together on the short couch, saying nothing. My father's lips are a long, thin line across her face. Butch has a dazed expression. I'm thinking of Toby. Of his cheerful "Happy Reaping!" Today was supposed to be a happy reaping, for him at least and for Butch. Butch at least won't get the that...not any more than I ever will.

It's my brother who breaks the silence. "Don't make an alliance with Crispin."

There was a brief moment in which I was to shocked to form a comprehensible response. I stumbled over a few sounds before finally managing, "What?"

"You heard me," he replied flatly. "I know you. You'll probably do it if he asks because you like things familiar." I stare at my feet. What's wrong with liking familiarity? "But it's a bad idea. He's impulsive-clearly since he volunteered for a kid that will probably just get drawn again before he's done. He got enough slips for the whole districf. If Crispin'd do somethin' like that what's to stop him from runnin' into the bloodbath and gettin' himself killed right from the start? Or rushin' into a fight to save some kid he doesn't know because he wants to...I don't know-give them a second chance or somethin'?"

As much as I hate it, I know he's right. Crispin is the kind of guy that offers to help you fix a fence for no charge, or talks to random people on the street to be friendly. If he continues that behavior in the arena he could get into serious trouble, as well as anyone with him. I need an ally that will think things through more. Be more cautious. It's the smart thing to do, even if a great part of me wants exactly what Butch said: something familiar.

" _Love is poison. A sweet poison yes, but it will kill you all the same."_


	11. Deserve: District 7 Reaping

~District 7 Reaping~

~Spruce Ashmark 16~

The birds perched up in the trees around the district herald the rising of the sun, singing their wordless song and bringing life to the day. Nature is self-centered like that. Today is a messed up day. That day that comes once a year when two kids get chosen to go fight for their lives; when at least one—and probably two— of our district's youth will die. Yet the birds sing as cheerfully as ever. They don't care about our problems.

My mother used to tell me that this is the best part about living in a district so close to nature. You get to experience how truly insignificant you are. Our entire world depends on what happens in nature—whether rain waters the trees or sufficient food is provided for the animals from which we get our meat in District 10–but nature is completely aloof to us. If every man dies, the trees will still grow and the animals will get their nutrients from grass and nuts instead of oats and packaged hay.

No birds died when my mother stopped tossing grain on the ground for them. The squirrels found other places to sleep when my father stopped building little houses for them. My parents died and nature moved on, just like they will do when I die and when my aunt and uncle die. Everyone I know will be gone and nature will continue as though we never existed.

The song of the birds is interrupted suddenly by a happy squeal accompanied by a blur of hair and limbs sprawling over my shoulder and into a heap on my lap. I laugh as my little sister wallows to push herself into a sitting position and stares at me with great, searching eyes still big and innocent.

Nature and children, it seems, are aloof to the problems of the human world.

"Good morning, Sprig," I greet, smiling as I push tangled blond hair from her face, and tuck it behind her ears. This time next week she will be four. I'll take her into the woods for the first time and let her see the squirrels racing up their trees and the birds flitting from branch to branch, singing their songs. I'll climb up into the low, sturdy branches of one of the trees and hang upside down to grab her and pull her up as well. That's the way my father used to do; scooping me into the crook of his arm and swinging me up. I used to feel on top of the world until I was a little older and realized there was still more to climb and explore.

I run my thumb along the neat little curve of her nose and get a giggle from my efforts. It warms my heart, chasing away the shadows that have been lurking in my head all morning. All week really, but they have made their way right up to the front this morning, impossible to ignore. But now they flit away, fleeing the sunlight that is Sprig's gaping smile and high giggle. This time next week I will show her the wonders of our district and the forest will ring with those sharp squeals of laughter. Then maybe it will feel like a happy place for the first time since my father's accident.

"Breakfast!" Sprig proclaims suddenly, probably her entire reason for coming before she got distracted tumbling around. She takes me by the hand and stands, tugging at me until I get to my feet and follow her out into the hallway and down to the our aunt and uncle's small kitchen. As promised there is a small breakfast of bread and squirrel jerky on the table.

My Aunt Ellie helps Sprig up into a chair, patting down the tangled mass of hair and smiling fondly. Sprig has that affect on people, even people hiding sadness and anger all pent up inside. That's a feeling I share with my aunt, I know. Maybe it's a feeling we all share in the districts. Everyone but the birds and little girls with big, blue eyes that haven't yet learned to look at the world.

~Brooke Mackinaw 12~

The sound of the sander on wood fills our morning. It drowns out the sounds of the other kids laughing in the streets, enjoying the morning off from school or work. No one comes into the shop—not that Mr. Winnow's carpentry shop sees much in-person business anyways—but the people gather around it, making the walls ring with the voices outside when the machines are off.

I finish the two-by-four I've been working on, turning off the sander and hauling the great piece of wood over to the stack forming in the corner, waiting to be shipped off to wherever the Capitol is in need of a new building. The saw is still running on the other side of the building as Mr. Winnow cuts long, jagged wood into the requested lengths, chips flying around him like flurries of brown snow. My best friend Carla is at her own station near mine, running her own sander methodically over a smaller piece of wood.

I pull off my gloves, and press down the stubborn strands of thick black hair that have escaped from my hair tie. I've almost contained everything again when the front door of the shop swings open. I can it see around the corner, barely visible. I jog over to where Mr. Winnow is working bowed over his saw, oblivious to the guest, who is now poking his head around the corner. He's from our district, not a fancy Capitolite looking completely out of place, and that makes my heart jump into my throat. When customers from District Seven wander into the shop it usually entails a local job. Working on the building of a place in Seven means better pay, and more importantly, much more difficult work than sanding boards. The skeletons of new buildings are usually dare-devil's paradise, unless you're a dare devil who's really afraid of heights. But what can I say when they ask me to climb up and fit boards into place? I'm much better built for it that Mr. Winnow, being light and agile. Besides. I have a reputation to uphold.

Mr. Winnow waves to the man and powers down his saw. Carla notices she's the only machine still going and shuts hers off as well, smiling shyly at the customer. The man smiles back. "Happy Reaping Day, young lady," he greets, tipping his head at her.

"What's happy about a day where two kids are going to be sent to their death for no apparent reason?" I demand, earning a warning look from Mr. Winnow.

"Brooke," he said, "Don't be rude."

"Wasn't being rude," I object, tossing my gloves onto a work bench. "Only asking a question."

"It's okay," The customer assures Mr. Winnow with a patient smile. "She's right, there's not much to be happy about today, but we have to find a little sunshine somewhere right? Have a little optimism?" He turns that friendly smile on me but I scrunch my nose.

"Optimism and pessimism are just people who don't wanna see the truth," I tell him. "There's the same amount of water whether you wanna say full or empty."

The man turned to Mr. Winnow, still smiling as broadly as ever. "A smart little one."

"Too smart for her own good sometimes," Mr. Winnow agreed, giving me a pointed glare, "but I do believe it's about time for her to head home to prepare for the reaping. You as well, Carla. Ask Mr. Mackinaw if you may borrow some water for a bath."

Carla nods, brushes wood dust from her shirt front and pants and tosses her gloves aside to lay beside mine. Then we head out, allowing Carla's father to deal with the fake happy man. When we come out people wave and smile. A boy from our class calls "Hey Brooke! Betcha won't try jumping onto the roof from that branch there!" He points at the branch in question, which is spindly, reaching out like a hand, creeping thin fingers over the top of the building. Mr. Winnow commented about how close it was coming the other day and planned to have some of the lumberjacks come out to take care of it.

"Later," I promise, eyeing the branch. "It's time for us to start getting ready for the reaping."

As we walk the long foot path back to my home at the edge of the district, Carla asks, "Why do you always do that?"

I look at her, frowning. I'm not doing anything except walking at the moment. "Do what?"

"Always tell people what they should and shouldn't think,".

"I don't tell them what they should think," I object.

She gives me a look as though she's wondering if I truly believe that. I don't know how she could think otherwise. I've never told anyone else what to think, only told them what _I_ think and I tell her as much which only makes her look away, shaking her head. "You just told that customer back at the shop that he shouldn't say 'Happy Reaping'-"

"-Well he shouldn't. Why should we tolerate treating it like a holiday?"

"-And you told him that optimism is stupid."

"I didn't say it was stupid. I said that it's only people refusing to look at the truth."

"You're just too honest for your own good sometimes is all I'm saying," Carla insists. I say nothing more after that. There's no point continuing to argue if she won't listen to what I'm saying. I take my frustration at her out on a rock in the path, sending it skidding into the brush with my toe.

My dad is sitting at the kitchen table when we come in. I give him a hug first, then steal a piece of toast from his plate, laughing when he objects and reaches without passion to take it back. When he sees Carla he gives her a friendly smile and gives consent without hesitation to her using some of our bath water. So the three of us haul water warmed over the stove into a basin and I allow Carla to go first, despite my lingering irritation. My dad and I sit at the table together as she bathes and talk about my morning.

When Carla reappears I take a rushed bath in lukewarm water and hunt through my room for a clean pair of overalls. Instead I find a pair that are less spattered with mud than the others and deem them acceptable. When my father sees his mouth twitches as though he may say something, but he only pats a chair for me to sit so that he may wrangle my thick, black hair into braids.

By the time he's finished the sun is creeping close to its highest point and it is time for us to make the trek to the square. Carla heads out the door, but my dad holds me back. I frown as he kneels in front of me. "Brooke..." he starts, but can't seem to find the words for what he wants to say. So instead he pulls my into a fierce hug. I hug him back. He whispers into my shoulder, "You only have one slip. I made sure of that. You only have one slip...this is going to be okay."

I almost remind him that it only takes one slip. If it were anyone else I would have without hesitation, but when I pull back and catch the haunted look in his eyes the words stick in my throat. I can't be honest...not about this. Not to him. I kiss his cheek and say nothing.

The square is alive with color and voices. People mill about, parents give their children pep talks and teenagers in love hang on each other's arms or suck face in corners. It's gross, I wish a peacekeeper would break some of them up.

The kid that challenged me at the shop earlier finds me as I stand amongst the other twelve-year-olds. "I haven't forgotten," he assures me. "First thing when this is over."

The microphone squeals and the square quiets. I whisper, "First thing," to the boy as the mayor begins her speech.

Usually the pre-reaping ceremonies are drawn out and boring, but today the speeches and the video and the peacekeepers bringing out the bowls...it all seems to pass quickly. First time nerves, I tell myself. By the time the escort announces, "Ladies first!" And struts over to the bowl, Carla is holding my hand so hard she's liable to break it.

The Capitolite plucks the first slip she comes to, no show of mixing around the slips or diving her hand in to select the one at the bottom. I wonder briefly if it's rigged. If the peacekeepers put the name they wanted drawn at the top center and said, "Just grab the first one you find."

"Brooke Mackinaw!"

"Huh?" The sound comes out as instinct, not because of shock at getting drawn, that part hasn't even quite registered yet, but just because that's what you do when you realize you haven't been listening and someone has called you out. I stare, mouth agape, up at the escort and in my head my father's voice rings like a song. _Only one slip._

And my own voice replies with the words I never said—and somehow in failing to say also failed to believe. _It only takes one._

But what can I do? I've been drawn. I have to go to the stage, and walking on my own two legs would be far more preferable than being dragged by peacekeepers. So I take a step forward, than another, before I am forced to stop because my arm isn't following. Carla is still clasping my hand, even tighter now. I didn't notice the pain before, but now that I'm aware of her vice grip still on me I can feel the numbness in my fingers, the ache in my wrist and knuckles. "Carla," I say dully, "You're hurting my hand."

She lets it go, slowly, her eyes dazed as she stares at me. I nod shortly to her, then turn and make my way to the stage, head high. I meet as many eyes as I can, especially the victors and the escort as I mount the stage. The faces in the crowd are sad or pitying. Shakes of heads, whispers like a buzzing of bees. They think I can't do this. They think I will die.

And somehow that helps my hold my head higher. They're wrong. I can survive. I can win this. I will... I have to. For my father if for nothing else.

When I take my place on the stage the escort wastes little time moving on to select a boy. She dips her hand in this time, swirls the papers around. Maybe she hopes if she spends a little more time drawing the boy she will get a better tribute. The slip she selects comes from somewhere in the depths of the white and she starts unfolding it before she ever reaches her podium again.

"Spruce Ashmark!"

No one moves at first. There are several beats of complete stillness and silence. The escort clears her throat and tries again. "Spruce Ashmark?"

Rustling starts then. Kids who recognized the name begin looking around for the boy. And finally enough people find him that I can pick him out, and so can the peacekeepers because they begin to move towards him. It's funny. We don't think about it, but looking at the person just picked to die is like betraying them in a way. If we all didn't turn and stare at them, maybe the peacekeepers would never find them to drag away. But we don't think about it. We just want to have one last look up close at the kid that's going to die.

The peacekeepers have to take him by the arms and lead him to the stage. He walks in a daze staring blankly around the other kids around him: the safe. Those that will survive another year. When he stumbles up the stairs and takes his place next to me I can see the silent tears glistening on his cheeks. Part of me shifts around irritably. If I could stop myself from crying certainly _he_ could. What a baby.

The escort turns back to the crowd, smiling broadly. "Well, There you have it ladies and gentlemen," she announces, "Unless anyone would like to take this opportunity to volunteer?" No one moves. "Very well, your tributes for the Ninety-ninth Annual Hunger Games: Brooke Mackinaw and Spruce Ashmark."

I squeeze his hand tightly when we shake, trying to tell him to knock it off and look strong, like a District Seven tribute should. He doesn't take the hint. He doesn't even bother wiping his face as the cameras show us one last time on the screens all around the square, his glistening tears like a great target right on his face. I don't really know why I care so much, he can't stick around if I want to live anyways. What should it matter to me if he lets everyone know how weak his is? So I set my face and look out at the crowd, and don't let how scared I am show for even a second.

" _Don't let them see your tears. They're nasty little shits and nasty little shits aren't worth crying over."_


	12. Deserve: District 3 Reapings

**Suprise! I'm not dead nor isn't this story!**

 **I know it's been forever, but my life has been absolutely insane as of late and isn't looking as though it will slow down soon. However I did commit to this story and to everyone who submitted and I fully intend to follow through. It just may take a while and I hope everyone will hang around to see how it all unfolds.**

 **all that being said I think less talking from me and more story is what we all want so here we are! District three! Thanks to Krystal Fox and BabyRue11 for these wonderful tributes! And thanks to Suzanne Collins for writing these books!**

 **District 3 Reaping~  
**

 **~Nova Ampere 14~**

The shadows shifted, flexed and stretched high above his head like great black wings and the air seemed to vibrate with a sound like a huge growling dog. Something flickered into view right before him. Luminous amber orbs with great black slips. He stumbled back, falling onto the damp cave floor in his hurry. Underneath the orbs teeth appeared: long, pointed teeth that glowed yellow in the light of the monstrous, blinking balls of light. "That's a-" he started, but his words were sucked away as the great maw opened and the air in the cave gravitated towards it, as though the beast were inhaling a great breath-

"RAAAAWWWWRRRR!"

My heart leaps into my throat and I nearly topple off my bed, fighting out of the sudden grasp of what turns out to just be one of my little brothers. My book topples to the floor, open and face down so that when I pick it back up the pages are crumpled at awkward angles. I give a frustrated huff and glare at my brother, who is cackling, blond hair a halo of static. "That's not funny, Spark," I tell him.

He falls over, disappearing into the colorful crochet blanket that was wrapped around my shoulders before I flung it off in my panic. "You should have seen your face!" He manages breathlessly between bouts of laughter.

The door swings open suddenly and our elder brother stands in the doorway. "I heard screaming!" He worries, looking around for the source. Then he notices Spark and looks unimpressed. "Do you three have to do things like that all the time?"

"Us three?" Comes another voice, high and indignant, and a round little face identical to the brother rolling with laughter among my blankets appears around Zap's leg. "Gadget and I didn't have anything to do with that. It was all Spark."

"It was just too easy!" Spark howled. "She was so caught up in that book she never even heard me come in."

I pop him with the book. "The pages are all bent now and it's all your fault."

Spark sits up, grinning at me. "Ooh," he starts in that annoying teasing voice the triplets all share. "Poor Nova. Someone go get a tissue for the sad little book nerd."

I shove him off the bed and he hits the carpet with a heavy thump and more cackling laughter. "Get out of here," I tell him irritably, standing. "I have to get ready for the reaping." He rolls to his feet and races out with Valve and Gadet, his identical partners in crime, to find more trouble to make. Zap chuckles at the sounds of the three of them stomping down the stairs. "What's funny?" I demand, rolling the pages of my book in the vain hope of straightening them out again.

"Nothing. I was just remembering what it was like to be young and rambunctious."

"You and Solar and I were never that obnoxious," I dismiss. The three of us may not have been triplets like our little brothers, but Zap, my sister, and I were all only a year apart and close—especially when we were younger.

"You're not really mad," he teases, grinning his knowing grin. "You're still just reeling from the loud noise. You don't know how to handle the shock."

I smile grudgingly at him. He's right, I can't really stay mad. Sometimes I'd like to, but anger just isn't something I've ever felt much of. I set the book aside. "I really do have to get ready though," I tell him ushering him out of my room.

I dig a white blouse from my closet, enjoying the soft, fuzzy material under my fingers before slipping it on and matching it to a pink skirt. Then I head downstairs to join my family for breakfast.

Meals are noisy, filled with talk and laughter and the clink of utensils and plates. The food is plenty, something for which I know enough about the rest of the district to feel fortunate. Many of the kids I go to school are only children and often missing one or more parents and still can barely feed themselves. Any family of nine that can feed every mouth full is quite the miracle.

We have eggs today, scrambled and dotted with bacon, with pieces of toast to scoop up the eggs and eat them like little sandwiches, and each a class of orange juice. Valve complains that he doesn't like orange juice and Gadget uses his spoon to flick little pieces of toast at our eldest sister, Tesla, who takes about two shots before she starts flinging them back. Solar, a year older than me with strawberry blond waves of hair to match both mine and Zap's, ties my hair up into intricate braids while I eat.

And somehow it's like nothing horrible is going to happen. Like two kids aren't going to be selected to die. Somehow in all the talk and laughter and Solar's fingers spinning strawberry blond art, I can forget that a great monster looms in the shadows, even more terrifying than the dragon in my book.

 **~Bug Dell 13~**

"You hear a sound in the darkness and...suddenly a dragon leaps from the shadows! What will you do?"

Gadget stares at me uncertainly, head tilted back in the way he does that makes his eyes seem narrower and more condescending. "I don't think I understand this game," he tells me after a moment.

I sigh. "You have to say what you're character is going to do. Play the role," I explain as slowly and calmly as possible. Honestly, though, he's not even trying.

"I don't think so," Gadget decides, standing and stretching. "This is stupid." Then he brushes past me. I hear his door shut shortly afterwards.

I blow strands of dark hair from my face and continue to sit a moment, trying to continue the game in my head, but there's only so much a dragon can do to a foe that won't move. Finally I stand and make my way our little kitchen. My mother is scrubbing the soiled breakfast dishes, a look of deep concentration etched onto her face. I have to clear my throat before she notices I'm here, but when she does she smiles fondly and asks, "Care to join me?"

I smile in return and take up a place beside her with a towel so that I can dry the dishes as she washes them. "I take it your game with Gadget didn't go so well?" She asks as I'm running the towel over the bottom of the bowl.

"He's just no fun," I tell her, scrubbing a little harder at the offending drops of water lingering around the edges of the bowl. "He has no imagination."

"On that point I'm going to have to disagree with you," she replies. She hands over a plate, so I set the bowl aside and take it. "Your brother has plenty of imagination, otherwise he could never have created all of those beautiful paintings he does all the time. He just doesn't use his the same way you do."

"I wish I had a brother more like me."

"You already have friends like you," she speaks softly as she always does but her words always command my attention. They hold important lessons for those that listen. "If your brother was like you as well you would have no diversity in your life. Then how could you create all of your wonderful characters?"

I shrug, but can't help a smile as well.

When we've finished with the dishes I hurry to change into reaping clothes. Mine are simple: a grey, collared shirt and jeans. We can't afford anything too fancy, but it's clean and free of worn patches or holes, which is better than many people in the district can say.

Gadget has reappeared when I return to the kitchen. He sits at the table with his tongue between his teeth, his pencil making long, elegant lines on the page. My mother has returned as well. She's slipping on a pair of earrings; simple little rings of silver, but her most luxurious possession. They look good on her too.

My father makes his appearance shortly after. He comes in full of energy, ruffles Gadgets hair—to which my brother objects irritably—, kisses my mother's cheek then holds out a hand to me. "Put 'Er there boy!" Uncertain of what exactly he wants, I take his hand. He drags me off my feet into a hug, making me yelp. "Two slips today," he reminds, putting me back down. My eyes feel as though they may pop out of my head they're so wide and I'm still breathless from the hug so I don't answer immediately. He takes that for his answer. "It's okay too be nervous. In truth, all of that probability stuff they teach you in school means little. The truth is that all it takes is one."

"Dell," my mother scolds.

"What? I'm teaching my boys a valuable lesson about probability." He turns to us for support. Gadget gives him a long flat stare. I give him two thumbs up because I'm still out of breath. Dad smiles and claps me on the shoulder. "That's my boy!"

My mother shakes her head and ushers him towards the door, motioning for my brother and I to follow. The square isn't far from our little apartment. Just a few blocks, and the streets are already filled with bodies. Milling people shuffling along, turning the streets into a kaleidoscope of dull, faded colors and pale skin. Gadget sees a kid from school and hurries ahead of us to walk with her. I don't speak to any kids I see from school and they don't speak to me. Most people make me uncomfortable. My mother says they can tell something's wrong, but they think I'm just stuck up and that's why they don't talk to me. Not that it bothers me. I don't want to talk to them anyways to be honest, especially if they can't tell the difference between anxiety and being stuck up.

The square has a little more color. The escort wears a flamboyant ensemble full of rich colors and a few other Capital officials have followed his lead. The cameramen mostly where black, but the peacekeepers in their shining white look like beacons along the edges of the square.

The lady that signs me in barely looks up. She holds out her hand and I place mine in it, allow her to prick my finger, then am dismissed as simply as that. I take my place amongst the other thirteen-year- olds, creeping through the chattering crowd in search of my friends, but I can't find them in all of the bodies. It would be so much easier if I were taller and could see over everyone's heads.

The square fills with the sound of our escort's voice, high pitched and happy. I stop pushing through the crowd to listen, or at least pretend to listen. The speech is the same every year and the video is worse. But if you cause a disruption you may face the wrath of the peacekeepers so it's best to stay still and look forward and wait for the bowls to come out and the calling of names to begin.

Finally, the bowls are placed on their pedestals and the escort slinks his way over to the girls' bowl. He buries his hand into the slips, until the crook of his elbow is resting on the edge of the bowl, then, withdraws with his victim.

"Nova Ampere!"

There's movement right in front of me, amongst the fourteen-year-olds, and someone makes a sound as though she's choking. The cameras find her immediately with the help of the disruption. She's pretty and definitely rich in a bright white blouse and pink skirt, strawberry blond hair woven into an artistic pattern of braids. It reminds me of my mother's words this morning. "He just doesn't use his the same way you do." I suppose art and creativity truly can come in many forms.

She manages to take a step, then another, until finally she has mounted the stage and taken a place behind the smiling Capitolite. Tears make tracks down her face but she didn't have to be dragged or carried and in its own way that is a victory.

But then the escort makes his way to the boys' bowl, the bowl with my name in it, and suddenly I can't feel bad for Nova anymore. Now I have to worry for me.

It's amusing almost as he selects a slip and makes his way back to the podium. This morning I was a dragon, hunting a man who wouldn't move, who wasn't going to fight, and now the roles have reversed. Now he's the dragon, and that slip in his hand is his flame. If he points his breath at me, if he calls my name...

"Bug Dell!"

...I won't move.

I don't move; not for several seconds. Some of my peers, those kids that never talk to me, look right at me. They know who I am. Maybe they're relieved? There goes the know-it-all that thinks he's too good for us. I don't know how they feel. I don't care. All I care about is the sound of my name in the escorts high pitched voice, ringing an endless note in my ears.

And not just that: my father's words come back too. _It just takes one._

He's right. All of our lives they have been lying to us. They put the older kids names in more, they make the hungry and desperate put their name in more times to reassure the rich, but in the end none of it matters. Probability is a sham. Chance can take anyone and now it has me.

I swipe at the tears on my face and make my way to the stage, head down, my lips sour from how tightly they're pierced as I try to make the tears stop, but I can't. It's too unfair. It makes me too angry.

When I make it to the front and finally look up at the escort he is frowning, looking between Nova and I. My district partner is still wiping away her own tears as fast as the fresh ones appear. Two young, crying tributes: what a year for District Three.

"Shake hands," the escort demands shortly, making me jump. I didn't even hear him announce us the final time, but now I realize there is a feeble applause filling the square, and everyone is looking at us expectantly. I hold my hand out to Nova, who sniffs, wipes at her cheeks with one hand and holds the other out to take mine.

And as easy as that—as easy as one slip of paper—I have a new role to play. I'm a knight now, and I have to figure out how to get out of the dragon's flame.

" _Deserve? Be careful with that. You start trying to work out who deserves what and you'll find yourself weeping for each and every person in the world."_

 **Thanks again to everyone for their patience! See you again sometime!**

 **Also I've decided trying to do a single quote for every reaping chapter was stupid and also I need some for later. So for those of you used to seeing different quotes for every one: it's gonna be the same. For the rest of the reapings. But don't worry they'll start changing again soon. Also the quotes on previously written reapings** **will change as well. It will all be this one.**


	13. Deserve: District 5 Reaping

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Credit for these tributes go to MessyModgePodge and Author196.**

District 5 Reaping~

~Theophilus Perceval Ravenly III 16~

The streets of this city reek as powerfully as the scum that lurk in its alleys. The sky stays a nearly constant rust-tinged grey and the buildings-aside from our little corner of manses at the edge of the district near the Victors' Village(also an exception)- are dull dirty shades of brown and grey. I try not to look around at the buildings as we walk, but my other option is the ground, where the asphalt is pitted with great gouges, holes like the whining mouths of the wretched majority of our district and the concrete is cracked, sometimes the pieces sticking up high enough to cause a person to trip.

If the decision were mine I would never leave the manses, but this insipid girl the mayor cursed me by fathering insists on walking the streets. "How can we expect to lead these people and fix this District if we don't ever go out and look!" She insists when I dare confront her about it, as I did earlier this morning.

Today I thought I was ready with a response. I had been rehearsing it in my head, preparing it for the next time I asked what she wanted to do and she replied, "Let's take a walk."

"Trying to fix anything would be pointless," I told her smiling proudly that I had thought of the argument. "If they're too lazy to work what can we do for that?"

"Most of them aren't 'too lazy' to work," was her fierce reply, the pitch her voice reached in her outrage making me flinch. "Most of them are unemployed because they are unable to work or because they lost their jobs and cannot find new work!" Her face had turned a bright shade of pink which only served to make her face as annoying to look at as her voice is to listen to. And I have always truly despised the way she crinkles up her face when she is in a passion. I hope I won't have to suffer that when it comes time to consummate.

"How can we help cripples and those incompetent enough to stay out of work?" I demanded, shaking my head and scowling.

"We create jobs those with disabilities can do. We create programs to work directly with hiring managers to find jobs for those having trouble finding one themselves."

"You wish me to help you hold everyone's hand like toddlers so that you can feel better about the ludicrous guilt you feel regarding the fact that you were bred better than them?" I had shouted, and for several long seconds she said nothing in return, just stared at me with big eyes, lips pursed into a white line with the effort of not bursting into frustrated tears. I had gone too far. Her father would hear about it if I didn't act soon and the man had the power to end the engagement if he thought I was causing his daughter pain.

So here I am, staring at the caved concrete, trying not to see the dirty, shallow eyed people and smell the stench of smoke and the unbathed, one hand I intertwined with my betrothed, who meets every eye and stares around at all of the eyesores and mutters notes to herself that I only half make out and care nothing for.

Then she stops abruptly and I do not notice in time to stop, so instead my arm locks and jerks me back, making me stumble. I turn to scold her, but she is talking to some emaciated little man seated on the street corner. His beard is scraggly and his hair long and matted. His finger nails have black crescents on top, which make me recoil when he reaches out a hand to shake mine as Augusta introduces me. "You have to ignore him," Augusta told the man. "He thinks he's above the rest of society."

"I am above such vile scum as this; men who must interfere in the leisure of good, hard working citizens to beg for change." And I kicked the little tin can resting in front of the man's bare, mud caked feet. Coins clang across the sidewalk and the tin can clatters and rolls into the street. I chuckle at my work as the stupid little man scrambles to gather all of his ill-earned change.

Augusta doesn't find it quite so amusing as I do. "Theophilus!" She cries, her voice even higher than this morning. I wince at the sound, like the squeal of ungreased hinges. She drops to her knees, getting her beautiful, handmade dress dirty with the filth of the District. I try to pull her back up but she yanks her hand away and uses it to scoop up coins. I see a scruffy little boy snatch up the tin can from the road and race off into the alley. The warmth of satisfaction fills me when I see that.

"A street rat seems to have stolen your can," I announce. "However will you rob people of their money now?"

"Theophilus!"

"Or perhaps you will use that to your advantage," I continued, barely hearing Augusta's protest. "Perhaps they will feel more guilty if you don't even have a can for them to put their pity money into. They'll be forced to put it directly into your grubby-"

The slap rings like a the gunshot of an execution: sharp, ringing. My head snaps to the side so that I'm staring directly into the alley behind the begger, where a girl all skin and bones has paused in the act of rummaging through a trash can to stare at me with wide eyes. When she sees I've noticed her she disappears in a flash of dull brown, into the shadows of the buildings. Somehow her presence, seeing that someone saw, that they noticed-especially filthy scum like her and this ridiculous begger and probably the can thief as well- moves me back to reality.

I turn on her, teeth grinding-which feels awful and will do horror to my teeth, but I can't stop myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice in reminding me that she is the mayor's daughter and I have to avoid doing something to give the mayor an excuse to end the betrothal. My hands are twitching violently, I want so badly to strike back. But I am well bred and striking women is for street scum: Drunks and lazy, unemployed, pathetic excuses for humans. Not for me.

"You will never do that again," I warn her, my voice is shaking as bad as my hands. "A lady should never strike another person, especially her husband. It is unbecoming."

"You aren't my husband," she answers. Her voice is venomous, her dark eyes seething with a fire of pride and rage. "And I'm going to make sure you never will be."

And with that she turns on her heel and races back up the street towards home.

~Twyla Zahavyin 16~

I was walking down the sidewalk, carrying the annoying shoes I can't walk in with one hand and watching the sidewalk so as not to fall or stub my toes on the jutting concrete and gaping cracks, when I ran into the mayor's daughter: literally.

I might have been mad about it except that Augusta Van Beagal(don't even get me started on the ridiculous names of these rich kids) is basically the kindest and most big-hearted person in this god-forsake District and so I feel she's earned a little benefit of the doubt. And besides, she ended up more hurt than me because when we collided she stumbled back against one of those jutting teeth of concrete and fell on her butt, peeling away the skin on her hand when it scraped along the concrete.

And she was crying, which is probably why she didn't see me to begin with.

So instead of snapping at her to watch where she was going like I initially wanted to, I helped her to her feet. Somehow I found myself here, seated across a small table from her, listening to the other occupants of the little tea shop chatter. Augusta is cradling a cup between her hands and staring silently at the liquid. She hasn't told me what happened yet and I haven't asked. So we sit in comfortable silence.

Or I'm comfortable at least. Maybe Augusta hasn't been because she takes a deep breath and finally looks up at me. "Why aren't you with your family? Today's a day to be with family." She's looking over the red dye on the ends of my hair, the beautiful dress my dad ordered special for me two years ago. It's extravagant for our middle class income, but probably just an everyday buy for someone as loaded as Augusta. Still, decent maintenance says a lot in this district which, must be why she assumes I have a family worth being with.

"It's complicated," I dismiss, a lie in truth. It doesn't get much simpler than my step-mother hates me and my father lets her. That doesn't mean it's any of her business. "What's got you so upset?"

She takes a very long sip of tea and sets her cup back down on its platter. Everything she does is dainty and proper. She's sophisticated even in the way she dabs away excess liquid at the corner of her mouth and sighs. "It doesn't matter."

So we lapse again into silence. I feel self conscious when I drink my tea, like she's judging the way I can't stop myself from slurping a little or how loudly I swallow. When she drinks she makes no sound. I'm the one that breaks the silence this time, unable to take the deafening silence of her drinking. "I think your problems matter."

She turned her gaze on me again. Her eyes are huge; brown and round and deep in a way I rarely see on kids my age. "They're trivial next to starving or sleeping in cardboard boxes or-"

"I took out tesserae this year. My family doesn't need it, we're okay on money, but my step mom hopes that with my name in extra times I'll be drawn. She wants to get rid of me, just like she always has. She's the reason I'm not at home with my dad right now." Augusta blinks, mouth hanging open slightly. She doesn't respond immediately so I plow on. "I'm not starving or sleeping in doorways. I don't have to beg for money or sell my body or do anything awful to survive, but I don't think that diminishes my problems. My problems are just different."

She gives me the barest of smiles. "Is that why you're so guarded?" I raise an eyebrow. She takes the hint to elaborate. "You always kinda just dismiss people, keep them at a distance."

"How do you know that?"

"We go to the same school. I see it all the time."

It was my turn to stare at my cup. "I didn't think you paid that much attention to me."

"I pay attention to everyone. I'm going to be mayor someday and paying attention is going to be my job." There's a sadness to her voice and when I look up I see it in the slow trace of her finger over the lip of her cup. "Especially if my father makes me marry Theophilus."

I smile despite myself at her words and the venomous way she says the name. Most people don't like the stupid prick, but hearing that his own fiance can't stand him is satisfying on a whole new level. I only feel happy for a few seconds, however, before it occurs to me that we may finally have landed on the reason she was upset when we ran into each other. "Did he do something to you? To make you cry?" Then a horrifying thought. "He didn't, like, hit you...?"

"No!" She assures, waving her arms as though to clear the negative thought from the air around her. "He's been trained all his life that striking a lady is improper and he's nothing if not proper." I have a very vivid memory of him slamming into me with his tray when I had no room to move out of his path in the cafe that speaks to the contrary, but I don't bring it up. Instead I asked her to tell me what he did. When she finishes I find that I still doubt her comment about his being proper. I don't think kicking cans out of desperate men's hands falls under my definition of proper behavior. I tell her so and she laughs. "He's an ass," she agrees.

The sun is high by now and the streets have begun to crowd with people headed to the reaping. "I think I'd better go," I tell Augusta, standing and stretching. A waitress appears and I hand over my cup to her. Augusta gives hers up as well and stands, flattening her skirt with a swift run of her hands. "Care to come with me?" I offer before I can stop myself.

Augusta brushes a stray strand of chocolate-colored hair, worked loose from its braid in her fall, behind an ear and considers. "You wouldn't mind? I don't want to be a bother."

"No bother," I promise, the word sounding strange on my tongue. Rich kids and their fancy words; all soft edges to hide pointed intentions.

We're not far from the square, but any walk is too long in these monster shoes so I continue to carry them in one hand. "How can you do that?" She demands, staring dumbfounded at my bare feet. "I would fret endlessly about all of the rubbish my feet would pick up."

"I'm much more concerned with that sentence at the moment," I tell her, only half joking. I put on my best fake posh voice and say, "Must you speak like this? Don't you know it's Panem and not Camelot?"

Augusta smiles when I say that despite the fact that I was making fun of her. "You're familiar with the stories of King Arthur and the knights of the round table?"

"I'm familiar with the concept and disturbed about how excited you are about them."

Augusta deflated almost imperceptibly. "Sorry. I love stories of knights. It's good to think there was chivalry in the world at some point."

She doesn't say much more as we wait to be signed in and head to our sections. I feel guilty...maybe I made fun of her a little too much; pushed her away the way she said I do to other people. Maybe that's for the best though. Getting close to people only gets you hurt in the long run anyways. My brother was proof of that. I will always see great leaping fire and hear stomach clenching screams of agony when I think of really opening myself up to caring about some-

"Twyla Za...Zah-aaa-ha-"

"For Pete's sake, it's pronounced Zahavyin!" I snap loudly. Heads turn in my direction, as though someone has pulled some sort of lever...or as though I've drawn for the Hunger Games and am worried about how the stupid escort is pronouncing my name.

I swallow hard and stare around at them. I want to be angry, to scream at them to stop staring. I do neither of those things. It's not their fault. They're just innocent bystanders. They didn't make me take out tesserae or pluck my name from that bowl. I move past them, ignore their wide eyes and gaping mouths. I can do this. I can make this walk. I can stop myself from shaking violently, or worse, crying. I mount the stage, glare coldly at the escort and take my place on stage. The Capitolite clears her throat uncomfortably and announces, "Now the boys."

When she opens the slip she blinks the way we do when pressed to read something that makes us uncertain. Another difficult name, what luck she's having this year. "Theophilus Perceval Ravenly III?"

You have got to be kidding me.

The response is almost instantaneous. The people around him scatter as though a gunshot has been fired and there he stands in our section, wearing what looks to be a ridiculously expensive suit and a scowl. Whispers sweep through the crowd. Everyone watches with bated breath, but no one moves forward to volunteer as he clearly expects, staring around at everyone. It's not until, the peacekeepers begin moving in his direction that he finally makes his way up, his stomping steps ringing in the quiet square.

I look for Augusta's face in the crowd but there are too many faces. Is she happy? I would be if I wasn't the person that was going to have to deal with him for the next few weeks. And if anyone has the right to be relieved about being rid of one of the most awful pieces of rich scum in the district it's the girl he was going to marry.

Theophilus is fuming as he takes his place. It might have been funny from the crowd, but up here all I can think of is the VERY long week I am going to have sharing a living space with Prince Self-righteous. I swear there's a vein in his forehead that I'm afraid is gonna explode when the escort tells us to shake hands.

"That's okay, we don't have to shake hands," I tell the escort, "I wouldn't want to get my poor germs all over his highness."

His face spasms with rage. I hope Augusta was right about him never hitting a girl because I have a feeling if he would it will be me- if not now then sometime during our trip to death. The escort clears her throat, looks around at someone for help. She can feel we're on the edge of disaster. "Shaking hands is customary..."

"Custom is important," Theophilus growls between his teeth and holds out his hand. "Come along Twyla. You must not feel intimidated by my superiority."

I take his hand in a harsh grip and what follows is less a handshake and more both us us attempting to break the others hand. I keep my face even, glaring at him, searching for any sign of discomfort. He offers none and after perhaps an entire, tense minute, the escort clears her throat and says, "Well I think you can let go of each other now."

Neither of us does. We're both waiting for the other to break. In the end it's the mayor that breaks it up, taking us each by the wrist and pulling us apart. "She said that's enough."

He stares hard at Theophilus when he says it and I see it again, that spasm of rage. There and then gone. Theophilus breaks into a smile. "I'm terribly sorry. I did not hear. I was so entranced by my district partner's...beauty." He gives me the once over and the last word comes out flat. Mocking.

I don't fake a smile. I continue to meet his gaze, eyes narrowed. "I do have that affect on people."

"Yes. The lovely Mrs. Twyla and our gentleman Mr. Theophilus," The escort announces hastily. "Your tributes for the 99th annual Hunger Games."

The crowd's clapping is stalling, uncertain. The eighteen-year-olds right in front of the stage begin moving back quickly, eyeing us as though anticipating someone will come flying over the side of the stage into them. The peacekeepers must fear the same thing because they move in quickly and usher us into the Justice Building and to our separate rooms to say goodbye.

 _Deserve? Be careful with that. You start trying to work out who deserves what and you'll find yourself weeping for each and every person in the world._


End file.
